Caleb's hand was on my thigh and I was thinking about his brother.

Not in a way I could defend, either. Not a passing thought, not a fleeting oh-he's-attractive flicker that anyone with functioning eyes would forgive. The kind of thinking where you forget to chew.

"Gem. Gemma." Caleb squeezed my knee. "You want the last spring roll?"

"Yours." I smiled. The smile worked. It always worked.

He kissed my temple and turned back to the table, launching into a story about his econ professor that had Marcus and Priya doubled over within thirty seconds. Caleb was like that. He walked into rooms and the rooms rearranged themselves around him. You couldn't not watch.

I watched Owen instead.

He sat across from me, one chair back from the table like he wasn't fully committed to being here. Same face as his brother. Same sandy hair, same hazel-green eyes, same bones. But on Owen, everything was quieter. The features didn't perform. They just existed, arranged in a stillness that felt intentional, like a building designed so carefully you forgot someone had to decide where every wall went.

He wrapped both hands around his glass. Caleb held his with one, gesturing with the other, spilling beer on the table.

Owen looked up.

I looked down.

I always looked down first.

"So Gemma," Marcus said, leaning across the table, "Caleb says your capstone model is insane."

"It's not insane. It's a sustainable housing prototype."

"She's being modest," Caleb said. He put his arm around me and I felt the weight of it like a costume. "She literally built a scale model of a building that filters its own rainwater. My girlfriend is a genius."

"It's a standard gray water reclamation system," I said. "But thanks."

Owen's mouth moved. Not a smile. Something adjacent. Like he'd noticed that I corrected the description instead of accepting the compliment, and found that specific about me.

The table shifted topics. Priya's roommate drama. Marcus's failed Hinge date. Caleb ordered another round and insisted on paying for everyone, which was just how Caleb was. Generous in a way that never felt like showing off because he genuinely forgot that not everyone had his family's credit card balance.

Owen didn't contribute. He listened, and when someone said something funny, he didn't laugh, he just looked at the person who'd said it with an expression that meant he'd heard them. Fully heard them. Most people perform listening. Owen actually did it.

Twice he looked at me while Caleb talked.

The first time, I was tracing the edge of my napkin with my pencil, sketching the bones of a bridge. A habit. I drew on everything. Napkins, receipts, the margins of textbooks. My hands did it without permission.

Owen watched my hand move. Not my face. My hand.

The second time, I'd just laughed at something Caleb said, and Owen's attention settled on me like he was testing whether the laugh was real.

It was real. Caleb was funny. That was the problem. He was funny and warm and everybody loved him and I should have been satisfied and I wasn't, and Owen watching me laugh like a scientist observing a result was the exact opposite of helpful.

Dinner wound down. People reached for jackets. Caleb went to the bathroom. I stacked plates because sitting still felt dangerous.

Owen stood to help.

We cleared the table in silence. Our hands didn't touch. The plates made noise between us.

"Your reclamation system," he said. "Does it account for freeze-thaw cycling in the drainage channels?"

I stopped. Stared at him. "What?"

"The capstone. You mentioned the prototype at dinner three weeks ago. I looked up the plans for similar systems. Most fail because the drainage channels crack in cold climates."

Three weeks ago. He'd been thinking about my project for three weeks.

"I'm using flexible polymer joints," I said. "They expand with temperature change."

He nodded once. "Interesting."

That word. He said it the way other people said I love you. With his whole attention.

Caleb came back, slung his arm around my shoulders. "Ready, babe?"

"Ready."

We walked out together, Caleb and me, and I could feel Owen behind us in the way you feel weather change. Not something you see. Something your skin registers.

At the door, I glanced back. Just once.

He was looking at the napkin I'd left on the table. The one with the bridge sketch. He picked it up, folded it, and slid it into his jacket pocket.

He didn't know I saw.

I didn't know why my hands went cold.