Axel

Of course, when Axel (my brother's best friend) got fired and needed a couch for “like, two nights max,” I said yes. For my brother, who was on a business trip. Not for Axel. We never got along. He thought I was uptight. I thought he was a walking disaster in band tees. He was 28, six feet of black hair, scruff, and a beanie that said “Freaky” in faded white letters like he was trying to prove a point. Day one. I came home after a 10-hour shift to chaos. Shoes by the door. Takeout containers on the coffee table. My throw blanket wadded up on the floor. And Axel, sprawled on the couch like he owned it, smirking at me over the rim of his coffee mug. “Hey,” he said. “You’re home early.” “Clearly,” I said, kicking a shoe out of the way. “What happened here? Did a tornado wear your t-shirt?” “Nah,” he said, sitting up. “I was cleaning.” I stopped. Looked around. “This is cleaning?” “Yeah,” he said, dead serious. “I moved the mess from the floor to the table. That’s organization.” I wanted to be mad. I was too tired. “Your brother said you’d kill me if I broke anything,” Axel added. “So I didn’t. Progress.” I sighed, dropped my bag, and started picking up the cups. Axel watched me for a minute, then got up. “Fine. I’ll help. But only because you look like you’ll fall asleep standing up.” He didn’t actually help much. He mostly moved stuff from one pile to another while making fun of my “sad plant” and telling me about the dumb job he’d just lost. The whole thing was ridiculous. He was ridiculous.