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When Alex first moved into the building, he thought it was going to be peaceful. Just him, his coursework, and the occasional party that definitely didn’t end with noise complaints.
Then, six months later, peace died a swift death when someone moved into the apartment below his.
He’d nearly tripped over the chaos of cardboard boxes and duffel bags that had exploded into the hallway that morning. There was luggage lined like a barricade, a lamp dangerously close to toppling, and something that looked like a framed portrait of an old man glaring at him.
“Fantastic,” Alex muttered. “New neighbors who think the hallway’s an extension of their living room.”
He was about to step around the mess when he saw him.
A beagle, small, brown-and-white, with soft ears and the most heartbreakingly patient eyes, sat neatly beside one of the boxes, tail thumping in a steady rhythm.
“Oh my God,” Alex said, immediately crouching down. “Aren’t you a good boy? Aren’t you the bestest boy? What’s your name, huh?”
The dog’s tail wagged harder, tongue lolling out in unrestrained delight, and Alex was in love.
“His name is none of your business,” came a clipped British voice from behind him, “and I would appreciate it if you didn’t rile him up again. I’ve only just managed to get him to sit still while I carry everything in.”
Alex froze, still half-crouched, and turned.
And promptly forgot how to speak.
The man standing there looked like he’d walked out of a cologne ad: broad shoulders, hair that somehow managed to look both artfully tousled and aristocratically neat, eyes so blue they could probably qualify as a war crime. Unfortunately, his expression was about as warm as an Alaska winter.
“Uh,” Alex said eloquently. “You left him sitting here alone. Anyone could’ve kidnapped him. Or fed him poison. You can’t just … just abandon a perfect creature like this.”
The stranger’s eyebrows twitched upward, the faintest hint of disdain curling his lip. “Were you planning to?”
Alex gaped. “What? No! I just — I read about people who — oh, you’ve got to be kidding me.”
“You Americans,” the man said, stepping past him to grab a box. “Always believing whatever headline starts with ‘Local Florida Man…’.”
Alex blinked, mouth opening and closing like a fish. “Wow,” he said finally, voice climbing an octave. “You know, I was going to offer to help with your boxes, seeing as you already seem burdened with that massive ego, but clearly, there’s no room in this hallway for both of us and your attitude.”
“Then I suggest you leave,” the man replied without even glancing up, “and you’ll notice a lot of space will be freed.” He bent, scooped up the beagle, and the dog’s tail immediately started wagging again, oblivious to the mounting tension.
Alex crossed his arms. “Unbelievable.”
“Quite,” the man said dryly, and turned to disappear into his apartment.
The door shut.
Alex stared at it for a long moment, then looked down the hall, muttering, “Welcome to the neighborhood, jerk.”
Alex hasn’t seen Rude British Guy since The Incident.
Which is great. Fantastic, even. Because every time he remembers that conversation — the scowl, the clipped accent, the Florida Man comment — he feels his blood pressure spike. The building’s hallways have remained gloriously British-guy-free for months, and Alex has grown comfortable enough to wander around in socks and a hoodie at all hours, confident that peace has been restored.
Apparently, the British are intent on infiltrating Alex’s entire life.
His arms are full of grocery bags when walks up to the entrance of the building and nearly walks straight into someone standing there. Someone who’s almost impossible to miss.
The stranger looks like a human exclamation point. Golden skin, lime-green hair that somehow works, eyeliner sharp enough to commit crimes, and a studded neon jacket that could probably cause temporary blindness in direct sunlight. His boots, knee-high and magnificent, click against the tile like he owns the place.
“Oh, evening, love!” the man says brightly, as if they’re already best friends. “Would you mind doing me a favor and letting me in? I’m visiting a mate, but he’s being terribly rude and not answering his phone.”
Alex blinks, juggling his groceries. His brain cycles through every stranger-danger PSA his mother ever gave him, all screaming in chorus. Don’t let strange men into your building, Alex.
But he’s tired, hungry, and honestly too mesmerized by the eyeliner to argue.
“Sure,” he says finally, fishing out his tag and nudging the door open with his hip. “Go ahead.”
The man grins a Cheshire-looking grin and blows an air kiss toward Alex’s cheek. “You’re a darling.”
Alex just stares. “…No problem.”
He heads upstairs, grocery bags cutting into his fingers, and hears the stranger’s boots pause a floor below. Curiosity gets the better of him, and he peeks over the banister.
The man is standing outside that apartment. Rude British Guy’s apartment. Alex can’t see much, but he hears the sharp rap of knuckles against the door, and then the sound of it opening.
“David!” the stranger exclaims, voice bright and delighted. “It’s been ages! Thought you’d fallen off the face of the earth!”
Alex pauses mid-step. David?
He frowns, shifting his bags. That can’t be right. Rude British Guy looks more like a… Edward. Or a Charles. Something stuffy. But David?
He shrugs, continuing up to the third floor as the sound of cheerful conversation drifts upward.
Whatever. He doesn’t care.
Alex is soaked.
Not in a cute, rom-com way where rain glitters on your eyelashes and you look mysteriously beautiful against the city lights. He’s the tragic kind of soaked, like a drowned cat that’s lost both its dignity and its keys.
He stands outside the apartment complex, shivering, muttering every curse word he knows under his breath as water runs down the back of his neck. His earphones are ruined, his hair is plastered to his forehead, and both his spare keys are currently with people who have better things to do.
Literally.
“Fucking June and Nora,” he mutters, teeth chattering. “Of course they’re together. Of course they’re not answering their phones. I hope they—” He stops himself. “No, actually, I hope they’re having a great time. But also, just five seconds of non-girlfriendship so I can stop dying of hypothermia would be nice.”
He kicks at a puddle. The puddle wins.
He’s mid-rant when someone approaches from behind and unlocks the door with a soft click.
“You’re going to catch pneumonia standing out here.”
Alex turns.
Of course it’s him.
Rude British Guy — David, apparently — stands there in a perfectly tailored raincoat that probably costs more than Alex’s monthly rent. His hair is damp in that effortlessly perfect way, not plastered like Alex’s, and his dog is trotting happily beside him in a tiny, adorable rain jacket.
Alex stares. Or, tries to, despite the rainwater running into his eyes. “You own matching raincoats with your dog?”
David gives him a mildly unimpressed look. “Naturally. One ought to be prepared for all weather conditions.”
“Oh, sure,” Alex fires back, voice trembling half from cold and half from indignation. “Because heaven forbid you use, like, an umbrella, like a normal person.”
David blinks slowly. “Umbrellas are cumbersome.”
Alex rolls his eyes so hard he nearly pulls something. “You’re an actual jerk.”
”Not always,” David says, stepping past him into the building. “I opened the door for you.”
Alex scowls but follows him inside, grateful for the burst of warmth. Water drips from his sleeves and puddles at his feet. He sighs, relieved but also painfully aware that warmth doesn’t solve the bigger issue: he still can’t get into his apartment.
He stays standing in the entryway, fidgeting, feeling pathetic. David, halfway up the stairs now, his dog prancing beside him, pauses when he realizes Alex hasn’t moved.
“You’re not coming up?”
Alex shakes his head. “Can’t. Locked out. My spare keys are with my sister, and she’s… busy.” He waves vaguely. “Romantically.”
“Oh,” David says, looking a bit hesitant. “I see.”
The silence stretches. The only sound is the rain still pattering faintly outside and the dog shaking himself dry. Then David exhales in a way that sounds almost resigned, like he’s been debating with himself and lost, and says, “Well. If you’d rather not develop hypothermia in the hallway, you can come in for a bit. I can make tea.”
Alex opens his mouth to refuse, to make some sharp comment about how he wouldn’t want to impose on his favorite snob. But the promise of warmth and a hot drink hits him right in the survival instincts.
“…Fine,” he mutters. “But only because I’m freezing my balls off. And because I crave warmth. And not because I like you.”
“I’d hardly expect that,” David replies dryly.
Alex glares at his back as they walk into the apartment. “Wow. You’re so confident.”
“I prefer ‘realistic,’” David says, setting his keys down on a dish that looks like it belongs in a museum.
Alex takes a look around and instantly decides it’s the least lived-in apartment he’s ever seen. Everything is tidy, minimal and curated. Not a mug out of place, not a blanket tossed carelessly, not even a stray sock. It’s like a model home staged for a catalog.
It’s so him, Alex thinks. Perfect, polite and boring.
He thinks about his own apartment, with half-unpacked boxes despite having lived here for half a year, walls full of photos, socks on the floor, takeout menus stacked on the counter …He can already imagine the way David would wrinkle just the tip of his nose at Alex’s home, saying something so Britishly condescending like “... Oh. Is this how you live. How … charming.”
David unclips the dog’s leash and hangs up his coat, all graceful efficiency. “Bathroom’s down the hall,” he says. “There are fresh towels under the sink. Take your time.”
Alex blinks. “Oh. Uh. Thanks.”
“Try not to drown in there,” David adds, then disappears toward the kitchen.
Alex snorts. “You’re hilarious.”
Still, he’s too cold to argue. He shuffles into the bathroom, peels off his wet clothes, and steps under the hot spray with a groan of pure relief.
The shampoo bottles on the ledge are all brands he can’t pronounce. Fancy ones. French, maybe. He grins to himself, pops one open, and deliberately squeezes out more than he needs.
“Bet this costs more than my groceries,” he mutters, working it into his hair. “Screw it. I’m using extra.”
He closes his eyes, smiling smugly as the scent of expensive citrus fills the air.
When Alex steps out of the shower, the world feels a little less cruel. His skin is warm again, his hair smells like citrus and money, and for the first time that evening, he’s not plotting ways to haunt June and Nora from beyond the grave.
He kneels down, opening the cabinet beneath the sink in search of the promised towels, and blinks.
There’s a small box labeled neatly in black marker: David.
“Huh.”
Curiosity wins, as it always does. He lifts the lid just enough to peek inside. Scissors, pills, a small brush, and some sort of pen-thingy he doesn’t recognize. It looks like a grooming box for a pet, and more specifically a dog.
Strange. Why would David label a box meant for his dog with his own name?
Then again, maybe David used to live with roommates and got into the habit of tagging his things. Alex can relate; he’s done the same. (There’s still a “DO NOT TOUCH!!!!!!!! ALEX’S MAC & CHEESE” label on one of his lunch boxes.)
Shrugging it off, he grabs a fluffy towel and dries off, then ties it securely around his hips before heading out into the apartment.
David’s in the kitchen, sleeves rolled, pouring tea into delicate mugs that probably come from some royal gift shop. He turns at the sound of Alex’s footsteps — and freezes.
Alex barely notices. He’s warm, soft, vaguely smug about smelling nice. Modesty doesn’t even cross his mind. “Hey,” he says casually. “I hung up my clothes on your drying rack, if that’s fine. You don’t happen to have a hoodie I could borrow? And maybe some pants?”
David’s throat bobs in a visible swallow. “Ah.” His gaze flickers down, then up, locking onto Alex’s face with visible effort. “Yes. Of course. This way.”
Alex follows him into the bedroom, suddenly aware that it feels… different in here. The rest of the apartment is polished and impersonal, but the bedroom is quietly lived-in. A half-empty mug of tea sits on the nightstand, a soft shirt is tossed across the bed, and there’s a dog bed in the corner, neatly arranged but clearly used.
It feels like a glimpse into the man behind the marble exterior.
David rummages through the closet, the sound of hangers clicking filling the room.
“So,” Alex says, leaning against the doorframe, “your dog’s not gotten food-poisoned yet, I see.”
A soft huff of laughter escapes David. “No. It appears that was merely an empty threat from a very mouthy American.”
“Hey!” Alex protests, grinning despite himself. “I was warning you. People really do that!”
“I’m sure they do,” David says, turning with a faint smile that makes Alex’s stomach twist pleasantly. “The only danger that lazy furball faces is obesity. My friend Pez — you’ve met him — feeds him half his dinner every time he visits.”
Alex blinks. “The guy with the neon hair?”
“The very same.”
“Oh.” Relief flits through him before he can stop it. Just a friend.
David pulls out a soft-looking sweater and a pair of sweats from the closet.
“By the way,” he says as he hands them over, looking a bit embarrassed. “I realise this may come in the wrong order, seeing as you’re already borrowing my clothes. But … I would like to get your name. Other than ‘Claremont-Diaz, which I assume is your last name.”
Alex raises one eyebrow as he accepts the clothes. “You’ve stalked my mailbox?”
David flushes, bright red. “I just … wanted to know who I was up against,” he tries to defend himself, a bit weakly. “Since you threatened to poison my dog and all.”
Alex is too smug and content to tease him. He just grins and goes “Sure. My name’s Alex. And I already know your name.”
David looks surprised. “You do? How?”
Before Alex can say more, the front door clicks open and an unmistakable voice floats down the hall.
“Toodaloo! Anyone home?”
David sighs. “Speak of the devil … Trust Pez to barge in like he owns the place.” He nods at the heap of clothes in Alex’s arms. “I hope those are fine. Feel free to grab something else from my closet, if not.”
David leaves him to change, and Alex tries not to inhale the scent clinging to the sweater: clean cotton, something faintly woodsy, and distinctly David. He mutters to himself, “You’re not sniffing his clothes, that’s weird,” and immediately does it again before pulling the hoodie on.
When he reemerges, Pez is in full color-glory, perched on a kitchen stool, grinning like Christmas came early.
“Well, well, well!” Pez sing-songs, eyes glittering as he takes in Alex in the warm hoodie, curls damp and pants clearly too long for him.
“Pez,” David warns, extending a mug toward Alex again. “Don’t start. He was locked out and drenched. I invited him in for tea. It seemed the kind thing to do.”
Alex accepts the mug, the heat seeping pleasantly into his fingers. “Thanks,” he says. “You’re a lifesaver.” He takes a sip. It’s not coffee, but it’s good nonetheless.
Pez, however, looks like he’s just witnessed a proposal. “Sure, sure,” he chirps. “That’s what they all say.”
David shoots him a look that says behave, and Pez, predictably, does not. David glares at him. Pez purses his lips. The air between them is full of eyebrow conversations: tiny frowns and gestures Alex recognizes from years of silent arguments with Nora. He decides to put them out of their misery.
“Well, I’ll leave you two to it,” he says, raking a hand through his hair. “My sister and my best friend need to be done banging now, or it’s going to become a health hazard. I’ll call them and strong-arm them into coming over with one of my spare keys."
David looks faintly disappointed. “You haven’t finished your tea.”
Alex glances down at the mug, then shrugs. “Right.” He tips his head back and downs the entire thing in one go. It scalds him a little, but he’s drunk pure espresso shots hotter than this. The burn is invigorating.
“Perfect,” Alex says brightly, wiping his mouth. “Thanks for the shower and tea. I’ll return your clothes when we see each other.”
Pez looks impressed. David looks mildly horrified.
Alex is halfway to the door when David stops him, a bit awkwardly. “I thought … Perhaps we should exchange numbers. In case… another emergency occurs.”
“Oh.” Alex halts in his steps. “Sure. Good idea,” He pulls out his phone. “You never know when I might need rescuing again.”
They trade numbers. Pez looks like he’s just witnessed the adoption of their first child.
As Alex heads up the stairs to his own apartment, he pulls up his contacts and types in:
David, Apartment 12B.
He smiles to himself as he walks. Maybe the guy’s not so bad after all.
Alex ➜ David 12B:
hey, you want your clothes back?
or I can keep them forever, it’s your call
He stares at the message for three minutes before adding,
also, I owe you coffee. or tea. whichever your royal highness prefers
The reply comes twenty minutes later.
David 12B ➜ Alex:
I accept repayment in tea. Preferably not inhaled this time.
Alex grins, texts back a time and place before he can overthink it.
The café is small, quiet, and just pretentious enough that David seems comfortable. Alex makes sure to get there first. When David walks in, wearing a raincoat and a scarf, Alex’s heart does a weird, traitorous thud.
They order: coffee for Alex, Earl Grey for David, and when the barista asks for a name, Alex says, “David,” just to see what happens.
He watches with delight as the barista calls out his own name, followed by a clipped “David!”
“You think you’re being funny?” David asks dryly as they grab their drinks and try to find a table.
“Incredibly,” Alex says smugly, taking a swig of his burning coffee.
He catches the faint twitch of David’s mouth, like he’s fighting a smile. Alex feels stupidly victorious.
A week later, there’s a knock on Alex’s door. He opens it to find David standing there, faintly sheepish.
“I need to borrow…” David hesitates, holding up a measuring spoon, “…baking soda.”
Alex blinks. “What for?”
“Pancakes.”
Alex just stares at him. “You — what? You don’t put baking soda in pancakes.”
David frowns, genuinely confused. “Don’t you? It’s for rising.”
“Baking powder is for rising,” Alex says slowly, like he’s explaining basic chemistry to a Victorian ghost. “Baking soda is for things that already have acid in them. Otherwise your food tastes like dish soap.”
David looks mildly offended. “I see. Well, the recipe didn’t specify.”
Alex groans. “What recipe?”
David’s silence is damning.
“You know what?” Alex grabs his keys off the hook. “I’m coming up to supervise. Clearly you cannot be trusted in a kitchen.”
David rolls his eyes but steps aside, and lets Alex trail after him downstairs to his floor.
After that, it’s all little moments.
Passing each other in the hallway with a wave and a small smile. Quick texts that start practical (“Do you know if the building’s Wi-Fi is down?”) and slide into friendly (“Pez has dyed his hair orange now. Send help.”). Late-night messages that get dangerously close to something else (“Can’t sleep. Too many thoughts.” “Try counting Americans.” “There aren’t enough of you to make that work.”).
He learns a bit more of David every time they see each other, like slowly peeling off the sheet over a canvas and revealing the picture underneath. He learns of his beloved sister Bea and his strained relationship with his brother Philip. He learns of his father’s death, which impacted him a lot, and how Pez and Bea are his support beams in life. He loves to read, would like to write full-time as an author, but is currently happy helping out Pez with one of his dozen charities and spends his evenings reading or tapping away on the keyboard on some draft that probably never will see the light of day.
Alex catches himself lingering near the window when he hears the rain, wondering if David’s walking the dog. He starts timing his trash runs suspiciously close to when David usually returns from work. And when his phone lights up with a new message — David 12B — his chest tightens in a very peculiar way.
”Hey, why were you such an asshole the first time we met?”
”… Ah. I’d hoped you’d forgotten about that.”
”You told me your dog’s name was none of my business and implied that either my weight or my ego took a significant amount of space in the hallway.”
”To be fair, you called my ego big first.”
”Because — and this circles us back to the question at hand — you were a jerk to me. Why?”
”… Ugh. Fine. It was a lapse in judgement, alright? I was tired from sitting in a cramped moving van for almost five hours with a very nervous dog with stomach problems, Pez got an emergency with his shelter and couldn’t help me carry and unpack the first half of all my boxes, and I was tired and hungry and sweaty and had just gotten that walking disaster of a dog to calm down and not pee all over the place. Then some loud and entirely too handsome American shows up and excites the poor boy again and has the audacity to not only be devastatingly hot but also extremely rude — which I deserved, because I was rude first, but you … jabbed back and it all just spiralled.”
”… Oh.”
Alex tries not to call it a date. It’s not a date.
It’s dinner. Two neighbors having dinner at a restaurant where the wine list has footnotes and the napkins are folded into architectural wonders. Totally normal.
He spent forty minutes in front of the mirror, then changed his shirt three times before finally telling himself that people don’t dress like they’re meeting royalty just to have dinner with their friend — neighbor, he corrects — but when David showed up in a dark blue button-down that fit like sin, Alex decided a little effort was fine.
They talk. They laugh. David’s dry wit gets under his skin in a good way, each barb softened by that tiny smirk that follows. When David rolls his sleeves up mid-meal, Alex momentarily forgets how to chew.
By the time dessert is done, Alex feels light. Happy. The kind of happy that makes his chest hurt a bit. When the check comes, he’s halfway through reaching for his wallet when David slides his card over with a smooth, infuriating grace.
“I invited you,” he says simply.
Alex wants to argue. He also wants to kiss him. He does neither.
They walk home through the quiet streets, close enough that their sleeves brush against each other a few times, and every time it feels like a spark. They step inside their building, Alex walks David up and stops by the bottom of the stairs that will lead him to his own floor.
“Goodnight, Alex,” David says with a little smile that sounds like it means more.
“’Night.”
Alex’s heart’s still hammering as he climbs the stairs. He’s barely kicked off his shoes when his phone rings. David, says the screen, and his heart does a ridiculous little flip.
He answers. “Hey, you miss me already?”
Static crackles through the line, and then David’s voice comes, tight and worried: “—has eaten something while we were away, I need to take him to the vet. Could you follow?”
Alex’s smile drops. “What? Oh, shit — yeah, of course. I’ll be downstairs in two minutes.”
He throws his shoes back on, grabs his jacket, and sprints down.
When he reaches the second floor, the door to David’s apartment is wide open. Inside, there’s chaos: half-zipped bags, a scattered leash, and the dog is lying on the rug panting while David darts from room to room with controlled panic.
“Hey, hey,” Alex says, crouching next to the beagle. “Hey, buddy. You okay?” He strokes the dog’s ear. The tail gives a weak thump. Not dying. Good.
David reappears with a blanket, muttering, “David’s vet papers… where did I put—”
Alex glances up, momentarily thrown. His vet papers? That’s… oddly phrased. But then again, maybe stress makes people say weird things. Alex’s own brain short-circuits under pressure all the time.
“I’ll call a taxi,” Alex says, already thumbing at his phone. “You just grab what you need.”
David nods gratefully, still rifling through drawers. Alex keeps petting the dog, trying to sound calm even though his pulse is matching the dog’s panting rhythm.
“Hang in there, little guy,” he murmurs. “We’ll get you to the vet. David’s got you covered.”
The vet’s waiting room smells like antiseptic and wet fur. Alex sits hunched forward in one of the plastic chairs, one hand absently stroking the dog’s ears as they wait. The poor thing’s breathing has evened out a bit, the panicked panting now just soft huffs.
Across from him, David sits ramrod straight, a picture of polite anxiety. Every few seconds, his leg bounces nervously.
Alex can’t stop glancing at him. The way his hands flex in his lap. The faint shadows under his eyes. It’s ridiculous, but even now, in this sterile, stress-filled place, Alex feels… happy. Not that the dog is sick, obviously, but because he’s here. David could have called anyone, but he called Alex. And that means something.
He has the insane urge to reach out, to thread his fingers through David’s and squeeze. But he doesn’t. He just keeps petting the dog, trying to be calm, trying to pretend that sitting next to this man doesn’t feel like a quiet, perfect sort of intimacy.
After what feels like an eternity, a nurse appears in the doorway. “David Fox?”
Alex blinks. Weird. Usually, they call the pet’s name, right? Before he can overthink it, David stands, leash in hand, and the beagle trots beside him, tail wagging a little. Alex scrambles up, following a few steps behind.
The nurse kneels down, smiling wide. “Hello, David! Have you eaten some chocolate? Aren’t you a naughty boy? We talked about your diet the last time you were here!”
Alex’s brain completely short-circuits.
“Wait. Sorry — what?”
David turns to him with a puzzled look. “Yes?”
“No, I mean — what did she just say?”
“She asked David if he had eaten chocolate?” David says, as though it’s obvious.
Alex stares at him. Then at the dog. Then back at him. “Your dog’s name is David?”
“Of course.” David frowns. “What else would his name be?”
“I — what the hell? You’re David!”
David blinks. “No, I’m Henry.”
Alex’s jaw goes slack.
He doesn’t even have time to respond before the nurse stands, brushing her knees off. “Well, David seems stable for now,” she says, “but let’s run a quick check-up just to be safe.”
“Of course,” apparently-not-David replies, gentle again as he guides the dog down the hall.
Alex stands there, alone, his entire worldview crumbling around him.
Apparently-not-David disappears through the door, leaving Alex frozen in the waiting room, his thoughts melting into one long, incoherent scream.
David is not David. David is the dog. The human is Henry.
Henry.
He sinks back into the chair, elbows on his knees, and presses both palms over his face. He’s spent months thinking the dog’s name was the man’s. He texted June and Nora about David. He flirted with David. He saved David in his phone.
He yanks out his phone and opens the group chat.
barracuda boy: i fucked up. i fucked up real bad
BlueBonnet: What’s wrong? Is everything okay?
irl chaos demon: i tell you what’s wrong. i was about to get laid but now i’m interrupted bc alex has another existential crisis.
barracuda boy: 1) too much information. 2) i’m physically fine, but mentally? i’m screaming
BlueBonnet: what happened
barracuda boy: you know david?
irl chaos demon: you mean your apartment neighbor david? “this is not a date”-david? “i sigh dreamily every time i hear his name”-david? “i ditch my two best friends for him”-david?
barracuda boy: rude. really rude.
barracuda boy: also. his name is not david.
BlueBonnet: WHAT
Alex groans and drops his head into his hands. He can practically see Nora’s unhinged delight from here.
He passes the time by telling June and Nora of his massive fuck-up, and as expected, Nora sends a voice message of her crying from laughter for three minutes straight, and June laughs a little too and then asks if Alex is okay. To which he answers: “I don’t know.” He passes the rest of the time playing a numbing, mindless game on his phone, wondering how Henry the Human and David the Dog are doing.
Apart from his obvious embarrassment over having called Henry by the wrong name for literal months, he also feels a bit ... confused. In his mind, even if he initially didn't think the name David fitted him, he has still turned into a ... David, for Alex. The swooping hair, the strong cheekbones, the round vowels ... everything is David. David's laughter. David's voice. David's scent.
It's not that Henry is a bad name either, but it just feels ... strange. Like Alex has gotten to know one person and now has to relearn their identity. It's not fair to Henry, because it's not his fault, of course, but still. Alex feels ... a little thrown off.
The vet’s door finally swings open, and Alex shoots up from his seat before he can stop himself.
Henry steps out, relief practically glowing off him. The dog trots happily at his side, tail wagging like nothing happened, a little bandage wrapped around one paw. Henry’s eyes find Alex almost immediately, blue and bright and surprised.
“You’re still here?” he says, sounding equal parts touched and baffled.
Alex shrugs, trying not to look like he’s been stress-sitting in that chair for forty-five minutes straight. “You asked me to.”
Something soft flickers over Henry’s face, gratitude maybe, but it passes as the nurse finishes rattling off care instructions about chocolate toxicity and bland food diets. The moment she disappears back down the hall, silence drops between them like a weight.
Alex scratches the back of his neck, searching for words that don’t make him sound like a complete idiot. “So, uhm… David is… going to be fine?” He gestures vaguely at the dog.
“Yes,” Henry says, lips curving into a slow, teasing smile. “David the dog is going to be fine.”
Alex groans and smacks him lightly on the shoulder. “Lay off, man. I’m already feeling monumentally stupid that I thought I was dating a man named David for, like, weeks.”
Henry laughs then, like, really laughs. It’s the kind of laugh that bubbles up from his chest, bright and unrestrained, the tension of the evening cracking open and dissolving into something golden.
“Oh?” he says, eyes glinting with mischief. “I wasn’t aware we were dating.”
“Me neither, apparently,” Alex mutters. “Because I thought I was dating someone named David, and it turns out, I wasn’t.”
“Well,” Henry says, the laughter fading into a gentler smile. “I might not be a David, but would you perhaps be open to dating a Henry?”
Alex opens his mouth, ready to be snarky, but it’s impossible to keep the grin from breaking through. Henry looks so utterly himself: bashful, charming, and still glowing with relief, that Alex can’t even pretend to be annoyed.
“…I guess I can give him a shot,” he says at last, feigning reluctance. “I’ve heard he’s a pretty cool guy.”
Henry’s smile softens into something warm and genuine. “I’m happy to hear it.”
They head out into the fading evening light, dog-David padding along between them, blissfully unaware of the existential crisis he caused. Alex pulls out his phone as they walk, opening his contacts.
He taps into the entry that reads David 12B, deletes the name, and replaces it with Henry <3.
Henry notices, throwing him an amused look. “Wait until you hear about my middle names.”
“They can’t be worse than me thinking your name is David for six months,” Alex shoots back. Henry bites his lip, like he’s not sure if he should tell him or not.
A minute later, Alex’s voice rings out over the almost empty parking lot.
“Your middle names are what?!”