"So, who's that guy in the supermarket yesterday? An old friend? Or ... an ex?"
Felix's question echoes in the living room. I let him wait for a few minutes. His voice on the phone is light, teasing—well of course—but there's a curiosity under it and he certainly shows it for purpose. Or it's just him being himself, being so straightforward and honest.
I sink deeper into the couch, pulling the blanket over my thighs. I put the sketchpad aside, and get myself comfortable laying on my back. "Complicated," I say finally, staring at a crack in the ceiling. "Very complicated."
Felix hums. "That sounds much like ex thingy."
"Well," I admit, "we have ... history."
"Messy one?" he prods, his voice a little softer now, like he's reading something in my tone.
I close my eyes for a second, try to think straight despite all the messy threads that come back to the surface. "Yeah. Messy. That's the word."
He doesn't answer immediately. I expect some kind of tease comment—or maybe some playful gesture— but instead there's a silent pause. When he speaks again, it's quieter than before. "Is he bad news?"
I blink at the ceiling, thrown off balance again. Felix, the guy who flirts like a daily habit, actually sounding concerned? And why it sounds so ... genuine? Like, he really cares. Oh, shoot. Am I tangled in his web already?
"He was. I don't know what he is now."
Another pause. I can hear the smallest rustling cm sound on his end, like he's shifting, maybe laying back somewhere, running a hand through his messy blond hair. The image shows in my mind too easily. I wonder what he's thinking right now.
"You know," he says lightly, "I can be your human shield. If you want."
I laugh, a small, startled sound. "Human shield? What, you're going to throw yourself in front of him if he glares at me?"
"Absolutely," Felix says without hesitation. "I'll even use bodyguard outfit and get my whole body tattooed if needed. How does that sound?"
"Ridiculous," I say, but I'm smiling now, the tight knot that had settled in my chest beginning to ease. Slightly. A little. Felix really knows how to talk to people, huh? That's why many girls fall for him.
"And yet, you kinda agree. You're smiling. I can hear it."
I shake my head, even though he can't see me. "Maybe."
He lets out a pleased sound. "Mission accomplished."
There's another pause where neither of us speaks, but it's ... nice, surprisingly. Comfortable, in a way I didn't expect. He's talkative but not the one that constantly speaks 24/7 non-stop. And I'm kinda grateful for that. I can't even imagine listening to his teasing all night.
"So," he says eventually, his voice tilting back into something mischievous, "how dangerous is Elliot, exactly? Do I need to worry he's gonna challenge me to a duel next time? Hope it's not in the supermarket, though, I don't want to pay for the things I could destroy."
I laugh again, genuinely this time. "Highly unlikely. He's more the ... manipulative type."
"Aaah, interesting, " he whistles, "I can handle that kind of people. Bring it on."
"You sound way too excited about that, I must say."
"Just so you know, I like a little drama. That's why I take a musical theatre major. Besides, especially if it means getting more excuses to see you."
That catches me off guard. This is really dangerous. He's already getting into my skin. Slowly, but surely. I know that but I just don't know what to do with that. What should I do?
"You barely know me," I murmur.
"I know you're an indoor person," Felix says casually—as a proof that he's not barely knows me. "I know you get flustered when people flirt too shamelessly with you—like me or maybe only me—even though you secretly kinda like it."
My breath hitches. Felix, for all his easy charm, pays attention. This really surprised me. I thought he was just a reckless guy who barely noticed simple things.
"And I know," he adds, voice dropping lower, "that you deserve a hell of a lot better than someone who made you look like you were about to cry in a grocery store."
Wait. I really never thought that Felix—yes, that playboy—would make me this speechless. The reality becomes blurry. Why did he say those things? Why? Is he playing with me? Trying to make me seem vulnerable? Or he's genuine?
His words hit me harder than I expect. I clutch the phone tighter, pressing it against my ear like it might steady me.
"You're good at this," I whisper, "you know that?"
"Good at what?" he says innocently.
"At making people forget why they were scared to begin with."
"Maybe I just don't like seeing you scared."
If it's a lie, why does it sound so sincere? Ah, shit. Am I doubting everything too blindly? Maybe Elliot made me this way. He made me build a hell of a lot of walls.
Something clutches at my chest. I swallow, suddenly too aware of how quiet the apartment is, how warm the phone feels against my cheek, how dangerous it is—this connection crackling between us. He's a playboy. He played girls' hearts. I should be careful.
"Felix," I say, and I don't even know what I'm about to say next.
"Yeah?" His voice is rougher now. Raw around the edges.
"Thanks. For calling. And accompanying me."
There's a long pause. A second, two, three.
"Well, this is much better than drive you back home because you lost in the club. But, yeah, anytime," he says, "you can always call me whenever you feel like your surroundings are too quiet."
Lonely. Alright. This time, he's not being straightforward. Somehow that sounds more generous.
We don't hang up right away. Neither of us says anything anymore. We just stay like that, connected by internet, breathing into each other's silences.
For the first time in a long, long while, I don't feel so alone. I just hope that this ... is not a bad thing. Even though I'm questioning myself now. Am I really letting this playboy in?