Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

You couldn’t even fucking pinpoint the moment it happened. When you looked at your best friend and thought, Oh. Shit. I’m completely and infuriatingly in love with you in a way I’ve literally never felt before.

Because one minute, he was just Adrian Chase—your completely unhinged, sociopathic, vigilante, socially awkward murder twin. The guy who made terrible jokes at even worse times, who got way too excited about violence, who somehow managed to be both a human golden retriever and a terrifying murder machine. And the next?

The next, you noticed the way his hair curled at the nape of his neck when he forgot to gel it down, how the strands refused to be tamed no matter how much he tried. The way he smelled like a bizarre yet strangely comforting mix of gunpowder and vanilla, like danger wrapped in something sweet. The way his jawline was sharper than it had any right to be, like it was designed to be admired.

And then—because of course, it didn’t stop there—one minute, you were laughing with him about something completely ridiculous, something so Adrian that it barely made sense. And the next? The next, he reached over, all casual, and wiped a smear of blood off your cheek with his thumb.

Your heart skipped a fucking beat.

Skipped. A. Beat.

Like you were some kind of lovesick idiot in a shitty rom-com, not a person who had spent years being completely immune to Adrian’s absolute insanity. But now? Now, you couldn’t stop thinking about it. Couldn’t stop feeling hyper-aware of everything—the way he walked beside you as you headed back to your apartment, the way his arm barely brushed against yours, the way you were suddenly paying attention to every single breath you took just to make sure you weren’t too obvious.

Because what the hell were you supposed to do with this? This weird, messy, inconvenient feeling that had crawled up from somewhere deep and made a home in your chest. You didn’t mean to fall in love with Adrian fucking Chase. That wasn’t in the plan. That wasn’t smart, or easy, or safe. He wasn’t the kind of guy people fell in love with and walked away from unscathed. He was all chaos and blood and weirdly earnest loyalty. A walking contradiction.

And yet—when he smiled at you like you were the only person who’d ever gotten his jokes, or when he leaned in too close with that stupid little head tilt and wide eyes like he genuinely needed your reaction to survive the moment—you felt it again. That traitorous flutter in your stomach. That stupid, inconvenient ache.

You tried to ignore it. You tried to remind yourself of all the reasons this was a bad idea. Like the fact that he’d stitched up your bullet wound while humming Careless Whisper off-key, shirtless, and narrating it like it was a cooking tutorial. Or that he genuinely didn’t understand sarcasm sometimes and had a list of people he wanted to kill purely because they made you cry once in high school.

But even with all of that—especially with all of that—you found yourself falling anyway. Falling stupidly, recklessly, hopelessly in love with him.

And he had no idea.

Adrian, bless his chaos-ridden heart, was oblivious. Completely, utterly, maddeningly clueless. He’d throw an arm around you and call you his “murder bestie” like that didn’t make your cheeks flush red. He’d casually offer to kill your ex like that was a totally normal Tuesday favor. He’d look at you like you were his whole goddamn world, and then immediately ask if you thought Batman ever got chafe in his suit.

It was like emotional whiplash. Constantly being tugged between I want to kiss you and what the fuck is wrong with you? And still, you wouldn’t trade it for anything.

Because somehow, underneath the blood and bullets and unhinged declarations of loyalty, he made you feel safe. Seen. Like all the weird, broken parts of you weren’t something to hide but something to laugh about over post-mission pancakes.

And maybe—just maybe—if he ever looked at you the same way you looked at him, you’d tell him. You’d let it spill out, all messy and real, just like everything else between you two. But for now, you sat beside him on the couch, pretending your heart wasn’t trying to punch its way out of your chest, while he debated whether or not to buy matching tasers “for the aesthetic.”

You felt fucking ridiculous. Like you were living inside someone else’s skin—because this wasn’t you. You didn’t get crushes. You didn’t pine. But it was like some invisible switch had flipped in your brain. One second, everything was normal. The next? Adrian Chase was all you could think about.

And now that you’d noticed?

You couldn’t un-notice it.

This wasn’t how this went. You were supposed to be immune to this kind of thing—especially when it came to Adrian. You knew him too well, too deeply. His quirks, his chaos, his everything. The idea of falling for him had always felt like... it would be too obvious. Too messy. Too inevitable. Which is exactly why you’d always told yourself it wasn’t going to happen.

But here you were.

And yeah, maybe you’d read enough romance novels to know the trope. Two best friends. Years of built-up camaraderie and inside jokes. Shared glances that linger too long. And then boom—the slow, agonizing realization that they were hopelessly, pathetically, dangerously in love with each other.

But, maybe not.

Because this was Adrian.

And unless you were willing to strip naked and scream “I’m in love with you, you absolute idiot” right in front of him, Adrian Chase would never, in a million years, realize your feelings were anything more than what he already knew.

And that was the problem, wasn’t it? Because you knew him. Knew him better than anyone else in the entire goddamn world.

You knew that in high school, the two of you were the weirdos—the ones who didn’t fit in anywhere except with each other. The freaks. The ones people whispered about behind their lockers and avoided at lunch. You’d found comfort in the shared madness of it all, in the way neither of you quite made sense to the rest of the world. When everyone else saw Adrian as the over-eager, try-hard kid with too many opinions and too little self-preservation, you saw something different. You saw him—someone who just wanted someone to stay.

You knew that when he was seventeen, he’d shown up on your doorstep with nothing but a half-zipped backpack and a fractured look in his eyes. “Mom kicked me out,” he’d said, flat and unbothered, like he hadn’t just had the floor yanked out from under him. Your mother didn’t even hesitate. She opened the door, saw the bruised knuckles and clenched jaw, and pulled him inside like he was already one of her own.

Later, as an adult, he told you the truth. That his dad hadn’t left his mom for another man, like Adrian had believed for years. No. He’d just left. No reason. No note. Just decided one day he didn’t want to be a dad anymore. And Adrian, in that moment, had laughed bitterly and said, “Honestly, that’s so on brand.”

You knew he used humor like a shield, wore it like armor that didn’t always fit quite right. That he didn’t have a filter—had never learned when to shut up—which had gotten you both into trouble more times than you could count. Like the time he told Mrs. Jessop, the cranky neighbor with the endlessly yapping dog, that he “hoped it got kidnapped one day.”

You’d had to dodge that woman’s death glare every day for a month.

You knew he was the only person in this whole fucked-up world you could trust to actually have your back. No questions, no hesitation. If you said “Let’s bury a body” at 3 AM, he’d already be in the car with two shovels in the boot before you had hung up.

You knew that he let you pick the music in his car—even when he complained about it. Always rolling his eyes, always saying something about how “this song makes me want to cry and not in a cool way,” but he never actually skipped a track.

You knew that when he crashed at your place and you ended up sharing your bed, he always stole the blankets and denied it with such conviction that it almost made you second guess your own memory. “No way, dude. You sleep like a rotisserie chicken. You’re the thief.”

You knew he snored. Quietly, but just enough to be annoying.

You knew he always leaned in too close when he was excited about something, like personal space was a concept that didn’t apply to you.

You knew him. Every version of him. The loud, the obnoxious, the oddly gentle. You knew how deeply he cared—even if he didn’t always know how to show it. You knew that his loyalty was a force of nature. That if someone hurt you, Adrian would burn down the whole world and then make you a grilled cheese sandwich while it all smoldered behind him.

You knew him, and that was what made this unbearable. Because knowing him meant knowing exactly how unlikely it was that he’d ever realize you felt this way. That he’d ever see you as anything more than his ride-or-die best friend with shared trauma and matching scars.

So you sat there, your arm brushing his as he laughed to himself—some weird, quiet giggle at a review on a stun gun that claimed it “made my husband forget why he was mad in the first place”—and you smiled, because what else could you do?

Fuck. You were so in love with him.

You knew he was a complete fucking idiot. But he was your idiot. And that was what made this so fucking hard.

Because to Adrian, you were nothing more than his best friend. His person. His partner in crime—sometimes literally. The one he called in the middle of the night because he found something “really cursed” on Craigslist, or because he needed help hiding a body (metaphorically… probably). You were the constant in his chaos.

But to you?

Adrian had suddenly, quietly, become your everything. And it was excruciating. Because now that you’d noticed—now that the realization had crept in like smoke under a locked door—you couldn’t un-notice it. You couldn’t pretend things were the same, even if he still looked at you like they were. Even if he still flopped dramatically across your couch, babbling about vigilante politics and asking if “you’d still love him if he had one arm and a mullet.”

Spoiler: yes. Of course you fucking would.

It was in the way he smiled at you—really smiled. Not the exaggerated, over-the-top grins he gave everyone else. Not the too-loud, too-much laughter that made people raise eyebrows and step back. No. It was the small ones. The quiet smiles. The ones he didn’t even seem to realize he was doing. The ones that made his eyes soften and crinkle at the corners like he wasn’t just happy—he was safe.

It was in the way he always walked just a little ahead of you, not because he wanted to lead, but because some part of him was always protecting you. Even when he didn’t say it. Especially when he didn’t say it. In the way he reached for your wrist instead of your hand when pulling you out of the way of danger, because hand-holding? That was for couples. And you weren’t a couple.

Just best friends.

You weren’t stupid. You knew what this was. Knew the slow, creeping burn of falling in love with someone you weren’t supposed to. Knew it like a bruise you kept poking, just to make sure it still hurt. It did. It always did.

Because Adrian Chase trusted you. And for a guy like him, that was rare. It meant something. He didn’t let many people in—didn’t have many people, period—but you? You were his inner circle. His forever plus-one to chaos. He let you see the parts he didn’t show the rest of the world—the cracks, the doubts, the moments when his smile faltered and he wasn’t sure who the hell he was anymore.

And you?

You could barely fucking breathe around him now. Because every casual touch, every offhand compliment, every stupid joke, every time he leaned into you with that ridiculous excitement lighting up his whole face—it all hit you like a sledgehammer to the chest. Your heart pounded in your ears, your stomach flipped like you were thirteen and helpless, and he had no fucking idea.

You’d thought about telling him. God, had you thought about it.

Late at night, lying awake, playing out conversations in your head. Maybe you’d blurt it out after a mission gone sideways, when the adrenaline was still buzzing and your hands were shaking and you just needed him. Maybe you’d say it quietly, like it didn’t matter, like it wasn’t threatening to rip you open. Or maybe—just once—you’d shut him up mid-ramble by grabbing him and kissing him like your life depended on it.

But then you’d think about what came next.

Adrian wasn’t stupid. Oblivious? Absolutely. Emotionally constipated? Without question. But not stupid. He knew what love looked like. And more importantly, he knew what it felt like to lose it. People didn’t stay. Not in his life. They left. Or they died. Or they decided he was too much, too weird, too broken.

So if you told him, if you laid yourself bare and said, I love you, you fucking dumbass, he’d panic. He’d shut down. Maybe laugh it off. Maybe pretend he didn’t hear you. Maybe vanish for a few days and come back like nothing ever happened. Because that was easier. That was safer. Because loving you? That would mean risking everything.

And you couldn’t do that to him. You couldn’t be the reason he looked at you differently. You couldn’t handle the shift—the silence, the awkwardness, the feeling of having crossed some invisible line that couldn’t be uncrossed.

So instead, you swallowed it. Shoved it deep down, buried it beneath years of shared memories and bloodstained jokes and the comfort of knowing he always had your back. You pretended it didn’t kill you to hear him talk about other people like he wasn’t already everything you ever wanted. You smiled when he wrapped an arm around your shoulder and said dumb things like “Name a more iconic duo—I’ll wait.”

Because as much as it hurt, as much as it slowly carved you hollow, you’d rather have him like this than not at all. You’d rather stay in this strange, fragile balance where he looked at you like you were his world—but not in the way you wanted.

So you sat next to him on the couch. You laughed when he asked if matching tasers would make you “a power couple, in like, a non-romantic, but extremely deadly way.” You leaned into the warmth of his shoulder without leaning too far. You said “You’re an idiot,” like always.

And you smiled.

Because what else could you do? He didn’t catch how your laugh was a beat too late, too careful. He just kept scrolling on his phone, eyes lighting up every time he found a new, ridiculous piece of gear he absolutely thought you needed. “Okay, okay,” he said, turning the screen toward you, “hear me out—bulletproof friendship bracelets. Functional and fashionable.”

You snorted, because what the fuck else were you supposed to do? Cry?

“They don’t even match,” you said, voice somehow steady. “Also, that one literally has a mini knife inside of it.”

He beamed. “Exactly. Just think how cool it would be if someone messed with you and I was like, ‘She’s armed, bitch,’ and then—boom—stabby time.”

You rolled your eyes, but you didn’t push his hand away when he shoved the phone closer so you could see the tiny hidden blade. His fingers brushed yours—warm, calloused, familiar—and your chest ached in that specific way it always did now. “Dude, if I wanted to stab someone, I wouldn’t need a friendship bracelet,” you muttered.

“Yeah, but this way it’s themed.” He grinned, big and stupid and bright. You wanted to kiss him so badly it made your vision blur. Instead, you leaned your head back against the couch and closed your eyes.

“Let me guess,” he said, nudging your knee with his. “You’re imagining how badass we’d look wearing these. Matching outfits. Coordinated moves. Maybe a theme song.”

“I’m imagining punching you,” you muttered. But you weren’t. You were imagining a world where you could reach out and cup the side of his face without it being weird. Where you could trace your thumb along his cheekbone, lean in slowly, and kiss him soft, without him pulling away or making a joke or asking if you were having a stroke. You were imagining falling asleep with his arm around you and waking up to the warmth of his breath on your neck.

You were imagining more.

And it was driving you insane.

He nudged you again, gentler this time. “Hey. What’s going on in that head of yours?”

You forced your eyes open and looked at him. God, he was so close. Close enough to kiss. Close enough to say something real. His expression had shifted, subtle but genuine—concern threaded in the crease between his brows.

And you thought—say it.

Say something. Anything. But your mouth didn’t move. Your throat stayed locked up tight. Because if you said the words, you didn’t know what kind of silence would follow. And you weren’t sure you could survive that. “Nothing,” you said, offering him a half-smile. “Just tired.”

He looked at you a beat too long. Like he didn’t fully believe you. But then he grinned again—quick and sharp, the one that always felt like home. “Then I guess it’s good I ordered us energy drinks from that weird place down the street. You know, the one with the lady who always calls you ‘sunshine’ even when you look like you’re plotting someone’s murder.”

Your smile came easier this time. “She knows me well.”

“Damn right she does. We’re regulars. I bet we could commit a crime and she’d lie to the cops for us.”

You laughed. Really laughed. And for a second, you let yourself exist in this—this stupid, perfect, heartbreaking moment. Sitting too close on a couch that smelled like popcorn and blood and whatever weird cologne Adrian always wore that made your knees weak. Listening to him ramble, watching him light up over something dumb, feeling your chest swell with something too big to name. This was the part that made it unbearable. Because moments like this made it feel like something could happen. Like maybe, if you leaned in—just a little—he wouldn’t pull away. Maybe he’d meet you halfway.

Maybe he felt it too.

But then he clapped his hands and stood up, already on to the next thing.

“I’m gonna go grab the drinks,” he said, stretching his arms over his head. His shirt lifted just enough to reveal a hint of skin, and you hated how your eyes tracked it automatically. “Try not to miss me too much while I’m gone.”

You rolled your eyes, because that was easier than saying I always miss you, even when you’re sitting right next to me.

And then he was gone, bouncing down the hall, muttering something about checking if they still had the neon blue flavor that “tasted like radioactive regret.”

You were alone on the couch, staring at the spot where he’d just been, already feeling the echo of him like a ghost.

You let out a slow breath.

Fuck. You were so in love with him.

And the worst part?

You didn’t think he’d ever know.

Chapter Text

You hated Thursdays.

You could never quite pin down why. Maybe it was the way they hung there—liminal and heavy, like a breath stuck in your chest. Too far from the start of the week to feel productive, too far from the weekend to feel hopeful. The awkward, overlong sigh between Wednesday’s promise and Friday’s relief.

Thursdays didn’t offer anything. They just were—a placeholder day, existing without purpose.

“Thursdays feel thick,” you’d muttered once, offhandedly, the words caught halfway between a yawn and a thought you didn’t realize you’d said out loud. You were both perched on the edge of the bridge, legs swinging lazily over the side like a pair of oversized kids sneaking out past curfew. The river glittered below you, fractured and fidgeting under the lamplight—liquid glass catching the reflections of the city’s bones.

Adrian glanced up from where he was polishing a smudge off his glasses, the edge of his sleeve bunched in his fist. He stilled. Then, slowly, he lowered the frames back to his face and tilted his head toward you, eyebrows drawing together with theatrical disbelief.

“Thick?” he repeated. Like you’d just declared that gravity was optional on even-numbered days.

You shrugged and took another sip from your rapidly melting milkshake, the striped straw bent at a funny angle from where he’d gnawed on it earlier. “Yeah. Like... the air feels heavy. Dense. Like it’s pressing down on you. Not in a stormy way, just in a… Thursday way.”

Adrian’s brows stayed furrowed, but there was a flicker of something else beneath the confusion—something fond. His glasses were crooked now, the left lens sitting slightly higher than the right, and you knew he wasn’t going to fix it. He never did unless you reached out and did it for him.

“What do other days feel like, then?” he asked after a beat, voice pitched somewhere between dry skepticism and genuine curiosity.

You blinked, surprised by the question, but answered anyway. “Tuesdays are thin,” you said, lips quirking. “Like the world’s stretched out too tight, but nothing’s actually happening. Just tension. Background noise. You know?”

“Not really,” he said, but he was smiling now, that sideways, slightly off-kilter smile he only gave you. The one where his eyes crinkled at the corners, not because he was laughing at you but because he got you, in the strange, impossible way only Adrian Chase could.

Before you could respond, he reached for your drink—no warning, no hesitation—and took a loud, exaggerated sip, slurping dramatically like a cartoon character.

You gave him a look. He handed it back unapologetically.

“You’re right,” he said, mouth still a little pink from the strawberry ice cream. “Thursdays are like brain-soup days. That mushy, half-soggy feeling? Like everything’s running five seconds behind your thoughts. Ugh.”

You laughed, more startled than anything. “Soup,” you repeated.

He nodded solemnly. “Chunky brain soup. Maybe with some alphabet noodles.”

“You’re such a weirdo.”

“Says the girl who’s assigning textures to weekdays.”

You didn’t argue. You couldn’t. This was who you were around each other—comfortable, ridiculous, weirdly tender in ways that didn’t need to be named.

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. It never was. The quiet with Adrian was a blanket, not a wall. He shifted beside you, boots scuffing gently against the concrete, his hands behind him now, bracing his weight as he leaned back to look at the sky. The kind of posture that said, I could stay here a while.

Then, as if sensing the exact moment it was time to move on, he sat forward, reaching for the mask resting by his thigh. His fingers toyed with the edge of it, flipping it once, then twice, before he glanced sideways at you.

His voice changed—just slightly. Not cold, but sharper. More him in the way the world knew him, not the way you knew him.

“You ready to go fuck some bad guys up?” he asked, his smile all teeth and trouble now.

You didn’t answer right away. You were still watching him, still cataloguing the way the city’s glow caught in his hair, the way his mouth twitched like he was trying not to grin too hard. The way his fingers hesitated on the mask, just for a second, like he didn’t want to put it on just yet.

You turned your gaze out toward the water again, then upward—toward the dark ribbon of sky frayed with stars. The city beyond the bridge hummed softly, like it was breathing.

“Let me finish this,” you said finally, lifting the milkshake again. “The view’s nice.”

Adrian made a soft noise of agreement, flopping onto his back with a dramatic groan, arms flung out beside him like a crime scene outline. “Fine. But if you take too long, I’m going in solo. And we both know how that ends.”

“With you punching a car alarm and getting your ass kicked by a recycling bin,” you muttered into your straw.

He grinned up at the sky. “Exactly. Classic me.”

You smiled, shaking your head as you took another sip. Thick Thursdays and chunky brain soup.

God, you loved him, and he didn’t even know.

But now you hated Thursdays for a different reason.

Adrian had always been a constant in your life. The guy who slipped into your orbit like it was inevitable, like the universe had just decided one day: Yes, you need this chaotic gremlin in your life. And he stayed. Effortlessly. He brought noise, brightness, chaos. A whirlwind in a turtleneck. A walking contradiction of unfiltered violence and unflinching loyalty. And for the longest time, that was enough. More than enough.

He was your best friend. Your post-patrol dinner date. Your unofficial roommate. Your emotional support Vigilante. The guy who didn’t even flinch when you threw up after a rough mission, who quietly cleaned up the mess while making a bad joke just to get you to smile again.

The one who could kill a man in an alley and then spend fifteen minutes complaining that your bathroom light made him look “blotchy and dead” in the mirror.

He was yours in every way that didn’t count. And maybe that used to be okay.

But now… now things were different.

It wasn’t the way he still slipped into your bed after patrols that had changed—he’d been doing that for years. Always finding his way back to your apartment like some overly armed, bullet-riddled homing pigeon. Like the violence clinging to him wasn’t a barrier but a thread—something that connected him to you, that guided him back through the dark. No matter how messy the night got, no matter how late it was or how bad he looked, Adrian always found his way to your door.

And you always unlocked it.

He’d usually frame it like he was doing you a favor.

“I’ll walk you home,” he’d offer casually, even though it was out of his way, even though he was the one with the cracked ribs or the bloodied knuckles. And if you got hurt during patrol—something as small as a graze across your forearm or a split lip—he’d suddenly get real serious about “supervising your medical care,” like he hadn’t just yanked a shard of glass out of his own thigh five minutes earlier with zero expression.

“You shouldn’t be alone in case you pass out or bleed everywhere,” he’d say, gesturing vaguely to your definitely-not-life-threatening wound. “I’ll patch you up. I’m like… basically a certified vigilante EMT.”

“Pretty sure duct tape and a leftover Band-Aid doesn’t count as certification,” you’d reply, unlocking your door.

He always came in smelling like blood and sweat and fast food—whatever late-night place had still been open while the adrenaline was still wearing off. Burgers, gyros, chicken tenders. You loved the looks people gave the two of you when you rolled into 24-hour diners at 2AM in full tactical gear, with dried blood on your necks and crime scene dirt on your boots, ordering milkshakes and mozzarella sticks like it was a Tuesday afternoon.

And you never told him he couldn’t stay.

Not once.

You never said no—not when he curled up on your couch and stole your throw blanket, not when he shuffled into your kitchen in the morning to make terrible coffee with too much sugar and exactly one ice cube (“trust me, it’s optimal sipping temperature”), not when he threw his mask on your dresser like it belonged there.

Because maybe part of you liked the way he filled your space.

 It was the little things, things you’d never noticed before—or maybe you’d noticed them too much, too often, until they'd quietly embedded themselves into the fabric of your days, stitched seamlessly into your shared life.

It was the way Adrian’s voice echoed softly off your apartment walls, playful, vibrant, alive in a way your own space never seemed to feel when he wasn’t there. It was laughter at three in the morning over cereal bowls that clattered loudly against your coffee table, or him calling from the kitchen—“Hey, do you know why your freezer smells like birthday cake? Is it supposed to?”—his tone confused and entirely genuine.

He made your apartment feel lived-in, not just occupied between patrols and errands and jobs that left scars both seen and unseen. Adrian brought warmth, laughter, noise. A certain messy chaos that wasn’t exactly comforting, but still familiar—something you found yourself missing when your apartment was too quiet.

He’d enter your place without ever really asking. Dropping his gear by the door, heavy weapons clattering against your hardwood floor like it was nothing more than a pair of shoes. He’d toe off his boots lazily, each landing wherever they landed, then stretch, arms raised high above his head, back arching like a stray cat—if a cat could hide half a dozen knives under an oversized hoodie and smell faintly of late-night fights and cheap diner coffee.

And without needing him to ask, you’d pass him a towel. Because it was habit, because it was routine, because this was what your life had become. It was something small and quiet and unspoken that neither of you ever questioned, never talked about.

But now, something had shifted. Quietly, painfully, irreversibly.

Because Adrian still slipped under your covers each Thursday night, the mattress creaking softly beneath him as he settled. He still argued playfully over the pillows, making exaggerated sighs when you insisted your bed, your rules, poking him in the ribs until he grudgingly moved.

But now, everything felt different. It wasn't casual anymore. It wasn't routine anymore.

Now, every time he shifted closer, the mattress dipping gently beneath his weight, your heart skipped painfully, like a record needle caught on an old song. Every accidental brush of his knee against yours beneath the blankets sent your pulse skittering off rhythm, left your breath shallow and tight. Every sleepy murmur, every soft sigh in his sleep felt magnified, sharpened, impossibly intimate.

You became hyper-aware of every detail: how warm he was, radiating heat like he’d soaked up the entire sun; how his fingertips sometimes brushed against your wrist in his sleep, feather-light and careless and devastating; how, if you woke first, you’d sometimes watch the gentle rise and fall of his chest, his hair tousled and boyish and impossibly endearing.

But it wasn’t just the nights. It was everything else, too—the quiet domesticity that had snuck into your lives, that you’d never given permission for but had somehow settled permanently into place anyway.

It was mornings in your tiny bathroom, with Adrian perched cross-legged on the closed toilet lid like a curious goblin, eyes sleep-soft and warm behind crooked glasses, his mask casually tossed onto the countertop like it belonged there. He’d talk endlessly about nothing—rambling monologues about his shift at Fennel Fields or the existential dread of pigeons (“They’re everywhere, but have you ever seen one sleeping? Suspicious, right?”)—all while steam fogged the mirror, water hissed softly behind the shower curtain, and you struggled not to slip and break your neck while trying to shave your legs.

It was him making himself coffee in your chipped mug—too sweet, with exactly one ice cube to achieve the “perfect sipping temperature,” and how he always left another cup next to yours without comment, perfectly prepared the way you liked it. You never remembered telling him, and yet he always knew.

It was how he’d pick crumbs off your sweatshirt absently, how you found your laundry folded haphazardly yet carefully on your bed when you came home. It was in the way his hoodies seemed to multiply in your drawers, how his toothbrush was next to yours, how you’d stopped noticing exactly when these things happened.

But now you did notice, now you noticed all of it. You noticed it with a clarity that felt sharp, piercing, almost painful.

Did he know what he was doing when he leaned close, whispering conspiratorially about something meaningless, eyes bright and crinkled with laughter behind those ridiculous glasses? Did he know how deeply it hit you when he said things so simply, like, “You always take my side. I love that about you,” with his smile open and vulnerable and effortlessly sincere?

Probably not. He was just Adrian. Pure-hearted, oblivious Adrian who poured out affection so freely but never seemed to realize when it was returned.

And that hurt.

It hurt in a soft, lingering way, like pressing on a bruise just to remember how it felt.

Because it wasn’t just comfort anymore when he climbed into your bed at night, still warm from a hot shower, smelling faintly of your shampoo. It wasn’t just friendship anymore when he laughed at your worst jokes, bright and loud and unrestrained. And it wasn’t casual anymore when he stole sips from your drink like your boundaries were his own, casual and intimate and somehow heartbreaking.

Now, you lay awake, body rigid, hyper-aware of every breath he took beside you, every shift of the mattress as he moved unconsciously closer. Now, instead of easily drifting to sleep, you rolled carefully onto your stomach, face buried in the pillow, pretending your body wasn’t screaming for you to close that tiny, aching gap between your skin and his. You fought the burning urge to curl into his side, to gently lift his heavy arm and drape it protectively around you, just to pretend for one fucking moment that he was yours, and you were his, and this was normal.

But it wasn’t.

Now, you stayed awake until your eyes stung, staring at the wall forcing yourself to pretend everything was fine. You wore sleep pants and an old oversized T-shirt—telling yourself it was because the nights had grown colder, not because sleeping next to him in just a shirt and underwear had become unbearable. Because now every accidental brush of skin felt deliberate, too charged, sending coils of painful longing spiraling low in your belly.

Now, you couldn’t even roll onto your side without your gaze drifting automatically to him, without your breath hitching quietly in your throat at the sight of Adrian asleep. Without the overwhelming urge to trace your fingertips along his jawline, memorizing every angle, every small imperfection. Without desperately wanting to run your hand gently through his messy curls, imagining how they’d feel tangled softly between your fingers, imagining his sleepy sigh in response, as if you belonged exactly there.

God, you fucking hated this.

Hated the ache in your chest every time he smiled, hated the burn in your fingertips when he touched you casually, obliviously, completely unaware that every casual brush sent sparks through your veins. You hated how he filled every corner of your thoughts, every waking moment, every tiny detail of your life.

How could one person consume you so completely, so effortlessly? How had Adrian become everything—your first thought in the morning, your last thought at night, the name whispered in the quiet darkness when no one else could hear?

You were utterly, hopelessly, painfully in love with him, and he didn’t even know.

But worse were the thoughts—the creeping, dark, gnawing ones that had started whispering in your head at night, twisting and turning restlessly through your chest, making sleep impossible:

What if he did know?

What if Adrian had noticed every small shift, every hesitant pause, every stuttered breath and trembling hand you tried so hard to hide? What if he had sensed the change between you, felt it in the way your laughter faded slightly too quickly, or in the way you jerked away from his touch before forcing yourself to relax again?

And what if he knew… and didn’t feel the same?

What if Adrian was just trying to keep things as normal as possible, to quietly protect the friendship you’d built for so long? What if he’d noticed how fragile you’d become, how easily you’d break, and was being careful, gentle, slowly and silently letting you down—waiting for you to realize he’d never want you that way, that you were only hurting yourself?

What if this entire heartbreaking disaster was just you?

The thought hit so sharply it physically hurt, twisting your chest painfully tight. You couldn’t take it anymore, couldn’t bear to stay beside him for another suffocating second.

Carefully, you eased yourself upright, your heart slamming painfully hard against your ribcage. The sheets rustled softly beneath you, but Adrian’s breathing stayed steady. You stared at him for a second longer, drinking in the softness of his features, half-buried in your pillow, blissfully unaware of the ache he caused you.

Then you slipped out of bed, your bare feet cold against the wooden floor. The door clicked softly behind you as you stepped out of the room, making your way silently into the kitchen. You didn’t dare turn on the main lights, instead flicking on only the small overhead glow of the stove, bathing everything in muted, amber shadows.

You opened the pantry quietly, eyes drifting aimlessly over the contents: a nearly empty box of cereal, a forgotten packet of crackers, a couple of muesli bars you’d tossed there after patrol. Nothing special. Nothing comforting. Just something to keep your hands busy, to distract you from the ache in your chest, to force your mind somewhere other than Adrian sleeping quietly in your bed.

You grabbed one of the muesli bars, tearing the wrapper open slowly, almost robotically, fingers trembling slightly. The bench was cool against your back as you leaned heavily against it, your gaze fixed blankly on the tiled backsplash, thoughts racing uselessly, looping around the same unbearable truths.

This was bullshit.

All of it.

The way your entire being screamed at you to confess, to grab him by his stupidly soft hoodie and kiss him breathless, to just blurt out how deeply, impossibly, pathetically in love with him you were. The way your brain whispered endlessly that maybe rejection would finally free you from this unbearable tension, from the horrible limbo of maybe-maybe-not, from the desperate fantasy you’d quietly built around a man who might never look at you the way you longed to be seen.

Maybe rejection would hurt less than this endless ache.

Your fingers tightened around the half-eaten bar, crushing it in frustration as your throat grew tight, the quietness of the apartment suddenly deafening. Your body felt brittle, tense, desperate for release—desperate for anything other than this fragile silence, this unspoken torture of yearning and longing and denial.

Because Adrian was the best thing to ever happen to you, and he was also, undeniably, the worst.

He made your days brighter, your laughter louder, your world bigger—but he’d also fractured you so subtly you hadn’t noticed until you were already shattered, broken, desperately trying to hold the pieces of yourself together each time he smiled, oblivious and beautiful and so fucking far from reach.

You dropped your head forward with a defeated sigh, eyes squeezed shut as if you could block out reality simply by refusing to acknowledge it. Your fingers pressed hard against the edge of the kitchen counter, knuckles white, breathing shallow and controlled. You couldn’t do this anymore—couldn’t keep living in this suspended ache, hiding behind carefully constructed barriers, suppressing every longing glance, swallowing back every aching, fragile confession. It was exhausting, draining you moment by moment.

But the thought of losing Adrian entirely—of breaking the delicate balance that tethered you together—terrified you more than anything else.

You remembered vividly the night he showed up on your mother's doorstep all those years ago. His dark hair tousled, a duffel bag slung carelessly over his shoulder, and his expression strangely blank, guarded beneath that forced half-smile. He'd shrugged casually, voice carefully neutral, telling your mom, "My mom kicked me out," as though it were just another Tuesday. But the emptiness in his eyes told a different story.

Your mother hadn't hesitated. Even though your tiny social housing apartment barely had enough room for the two of you, she quickly pulled together bedding for Adrian on your bedroom floor, muttering sternly, “Door stays open. I was seventeen once, too.” You’d rolled your eyes then, embarrassed, but secretly grateful she'd understood without question.

You remembered clearly how Adrian slipped crumpled bills, money he had earnt from his paycheck, discreetly around the house—under the sugar jar, inside her purse, between the pages of a worn cookbook—pretending ignorance when your mom confronted him about it. Even at seventeen, he’d tried to make sure he wasn’t too much of a burden on a woman who was already working two jobs to afford what little she had. Your mother had given him half of that money back every time.

But more vividly than anything, you remembered that night for the crack you saw in Adrian’s carefully constructed armor—the fracture that showed through the darkness as he lay silently next to your bed, hands clasped loosely over his stomach, eyes fixed emptily on the ceiling, caught in a fragile moonlit shadow.

You’d watched him quietly, lying awkwardly with half your body hanging off the edge of your mattress, studying every painful shift of emotion he didn’t know how to voice. You saw the uncertainty pooling in his eyes, questions he’d never dare ask aloud: wondering why he wasn’t good enough, why everyone who was supposed to love him eventually walked away.

Without hesitation, without fear or embarrassment, you’d reached across the narrow gap between you, gently, awkwardly tangling your fingers through his. You felt his hand stiffen at first, surprised by the intimacy, before relaxing slowly into your touch.

“I got you,” you’d whispered quietly, your voice shaky yet certain, holding on tightly even when he couldn’t.

Adrian didn’t reply—not in words—but he squeezed your hand so tightly it almost hurt. There had been no teasing smile, no playful banter, just Adrian holding desperately onto the lifeline you silently offered. That night, the silence between you was louder than words could ever be, filled with the silent promise that you would always, always have him, even when no one else did.

You sighed heavily now, years later, standing alone in your dimly lit kitchen with the weight of memories pressing sharply against your chest. You rubbed a tired hand over your face, remembering how you’d had him then, at seventeen, in that cramped, rundown apartment where the world outside saw you both as nothing but freaks and misfits. It hadn’t mattered then, because even in your deepest loneliness, you’d always had each other.

“Hey,” Adrian’s voice startled you softly from the doorway. You turned quickly, heart stuttering painfully at the sight of him standing sleepily in your kitchen doorway, wearing nothing but his old, worn dark blue tracksuit pants that hung low on his hips. His hair was tousled wildly, glasses crooked on his sleepy face as he rubbed at his eyes with a loose fist, yawning quietly.

“You good?” he murmured softly, stepping into the kitchen without hesitation, coming to lean gently beside you against the countertop.

Your heart raced at the proximity, heat rising to your cheeks as you felt the warmth radiating off his bare skin, felt the subtle brush of his arm against yours. You offered a small, tired smile, smelling faint traces of his deodorant mixed with the soft scent of sleep that clung to his skin, filling your chest with painful longing.

“I’m good,” you lied quietly, holding up the half-eaten muesli bar weakly. “Midnight snack.”

Your voice sounded hollow even to your own ears, unconvincing beneath the quiet intimacy of the moment. You knew he didn’t believe you—could see it clearly in the gentle furrow of his brow, the quiet, thoughtful scrutiny of his eyes—but Adrian didn’t push, didn’t pry.

Instead, he simply reached out and stole the bar easily from your fingers, taking a large bite. His expression twisted into a grimace of exaggerated disgust, mouth half-full as he chewed slowly, contemplatively.

“These taste worse than I thought they would,” he finally offered, swallowing roughly, mouth turning downward into a dramatic pout.

Despite everything, you smiled softly, shaking your head as you gently tugged it back from his fingers. “Fine. You can be in charge of the snacks next time.”

“Don’t worry,” Adrian murmured, stepping even closer, his bare shoulder pressing comfortably against yours, his warmth sinking deeply into your bones. Your breath caught quietly in your throat, heart racing painfully, “I definitely will be.”

You didn’t pull away when he leaned even closer, didn’t flinch as Adrian rested his head softly against the top of yours, releasing a gentle sigh. You closed your eyes tightly for a second, inhaling slowly, painfully aware of every inch of skin pressed carefully against yours, hyper-aware of the steady, reassuring rhythm of his breathing beside you.

I love you.

The words burned dangerously on your tongue, hot and bitter and desperate for release. But instead, you held them silently, letting them sit heavily in your chest, your heart aching in quiet resignation. You didn’t dare break this fragile moment, this quiet, beautiful intimacy that Adrian seemed completely unaware he’d created.

Instead, you stood quietly together in your kitchen, breathing softly, sharing a half-eaten muesli bar in silence beneath the gentle glow of the stove light.

You let yourself imagine—for just a moment—what it might feel like to say those words aloud, to finally speak your truth. To finally close that tiny, unbearable distance between your heart and his, letting him see you clearly. But the words still felt fragile, dangerous; you couldn’t risk shattering this careful closeness just yet.

Instead, you took a slow breath and tried to steady your racing heart.

“So why are you up anyway?” you asked, nudging Adrian’s shoulder lightly, trying to keep your voice casual even as your chest tightened. “Doesn’t the infamous Vigilante need his beauty sleep?”

Adrian shrugged one shoulder softly, his bare skin still pressed warmly against yours. He shifted a little closer, seemingly without realizing it, as though seeking reassurance through touch.

“The bedroom was too quiet,” he finally admitted, voice softer than usual, almost hesitant.

You tilted your head slightly, raising an eyebrow in confusion. “Too quiet?” This house, this street was so far from being too quiet.

He smiled sheepishly, eyes shifting to the ground for a second before reaching over and snatching the last piece of your muesli bar from your fingers, popping it quickly into his mouth. You narrowed your eyes playfully, and he gave you a small, mischievous grin in return.

“You weren’t snoring,” Adrian continued teasingly, swallowing with a dramatic flourish, “and it felt too quiet. Kinda freaked me out, honestly.”

You sighed dramatically, rolling your eyes even as warmth bloomed in your chest at his gentle teasing. “I don’t—I don’t snore.”

Adrian crossed his arms over his chest, raising his brows in mock seriousness. “You definitely snore. Loud. Honestly, it’s kinda soothing—in a chainsaw-y, white-noise-machine kinda way. It’s comforting.”

You scoffed gently, heat rising slightly to your cheeks. “I do not snore—”

“And,” Adrian interrupted pointedly, shifting his weight and nudging your shoulder with his again, this time more purposefully, “I realized I had more blanket than usual, and since you usually steal most of it, I put two and two together and figured out you weren’t in bed. See? Detective skills.”

You shook your head, struggling not to smile at how ridiculously proud he sounded. “I don’t know whether to be offended or endeared,” you murmured, glancing up at him with an amused expression, the soft glow of the stove light casting shadows across his face. “Actually, maybe I should be shocked you can even put two and two together at all.”

Adrian laughed softly, genuine and warm, nudging you playfully with his elbow. “Wow,” he murmured through a teasing grin, “Rude.”

You shrugged innocently, fighting a grin. “Well, I definitely don’t snore,” you insisted stubbornly, “because if I did, your other best friend—Peacemaker—would’ve already called me out for it. Remember last month when I fell asleep after that stupid thing we helped everyone out with?”

Adrian chuckled again, the sound vibrating pleasantly in his chest, a gentle hum that you felt as much as heard. He leaned in closer, pressing his shoulder firmly against yours, his voice lowering conspiratorially, “Oh, he did mention it. You were snoring like crazy. Everyone noticed. John, Leota, Harcourt.”

You blinked up at him, eyes wide with playful shock, mouth falling open in mock offense. “I don’t know if you’re lying or what.”

“What?” he said innocently, shrugging again but keeping his arm deliberately pressed to yours. “You know I wouldn’t lie to you. Number one bff remember?”

Your heart stuttered in your chest, warmth flooding your face at the casual affection in his voice, the unthinking ease with which he declared he wouldn’t lie to you, that you were his number one. You bit your lip, looking away quickly before your expression betrayed how deeply those words affected you.

“I don’t snore,” you muttered softly, hiding a smile as you shook your head.

Adrian gently bumped your shoulder again, playful yet soft, nudging you affectionately. “It’s fine, we all have our quirks,” he reassured, the teasing fading slightly into sincerity.

The silence settled between you both again, but this time, it was softer, less strained. You stayed there quietly for a moment, leaning comfortably against each other in the dimly lit kitchen. Eventually, Adrian shifted slightly, turning his head just enough to glance down at you.

“Hey,” he murmured quietly, voice dropping into something gentle and tender, almost vulnerable. “If it helps you sleep better, I’ll even let you have the good pillow tonight.”

You glanced up, startled by the softness in his eyes, the quiet care beneath his teasing offer. You swallowed thickly, the intensity of your feelings pressing painfully against your ribs. Adrian rarely gave up the good pillow without complaint—always dramatically declaring it essential to his sleep and vigilance, even though you suspected it was mostly a stubborn pride thing. Offering it now, so easily, made your chest tighten even more, made your pulse quicken in your throat.

“You don’t have to do that,” you murmured, heart aching, “I know you like that pillow. Plus you won it fair and square this time around,” You smirked.

Adrian shrugged again, softer this time, his eyes carefully fixed on yours. “Yeah,” he said gently, smile fading into something more serious, “but I like you more.”

Your breath caught sharply in your chest, heart pounding loud enough that you wondered if Adrian could hear it. For a moment, the air thickened between you, filled with quiet truths you hadn’t fully spoken aloud. But you couldn’t—not yet, not tonight. Instead, you forced a gentle smile, hoping he couldn’t read how desperately your heart was screaming at you to close that last bit of space between you both.

“Come on,” Adrian murmured, reaching out carefully and lightly taking your wrist in his, “You need sleep, and I need to know you’re snoring again so everything feels normal.”

You rolled your eyes fondly but allowed him to gently lead you back toward the bedroom, his hand never leaving your wrist. His thumb brushed softly, rhythmically, over your pulse point, sending tiny, electric shivers through your skin. Adrian seemed utterly oblivious to what he was doing, the small gentle motion of him rubbing the inside of your wrist, or the effect he had on you, unaware of the way your breath caught softly in your throat, or how your heartbeat quickened beneath his touch.

When you finally stepped quietly back into your bedroom, Adrian didn’t hesitate; he simply, silently, swapped the pillows, deliberately placing the good one—the one you both secretly favored—in your spot. He did it without comment, without teasing, his movements strangely tender and careful, like he wanted to take care of you even in this small, quiet way.

Adrian settled under the covers beside you, lying down carefully but deliberately close, close enough that you could clearly feel the comforting heat radiating gently from his body, chasing away the chill of the night air. You swallowed, your throat tight with the ache of longing, the silent wish that this closeness could mean more than just casual familiarity.

You closed your eyes slowly, forcing yourself to breathe deeply, steadily, even as your heart pounded loudly, betraying every carefully hidden emotion you held inside. You focused on the rise and fall of Adrian’s breathing beside you, slow and gentle, the rhythmic sounds comforting yet painfully intimate.

He shifted quietly beside you, the mattress dipping softly beneath his weight. And then, just for a brief, fleeting moment, you felt the gentle brush of his fingertips against your wrist beneath the blankets. His touch lingered there, hesitating—soft and questioning—like he wanted desperately to reach out and hold onto you but wasn’t quite sure if he should or even could.

Your breath caught silently in your throat, chest tightening as you stayed perfectly still, afraid to shatter this delicate, uncertain moment. Your eyes stayed shut, body tense, acutely aware of the tiny, careful way Adrian’s fingertips ghosted along your skin, tracing gently over your wrist, warm and impossibly tender, before slowly pulling away again.

After another long, quiet moment, you felt him shift again, gently rolling over onto his side, his bare back facing you. You released a small, shaky breath, chest aching painfully with a mix of longing and resignation as you slowly, reluctantly rolled over the opposite way, your heart still hammering desperately inside your chest.

You squeezed your eyes shut tighter, forcing yourself to breathe deeply, to steady yourself, trying desperately to ignore the lingering heat of Adrian’s shoulder pressed lightly against yours beneath the sheets. Your fingers curled softly into the fabric of your pillow—the good pillow, the one that smelled faintly yet unmistakably of Adrian, soap, and sleep, and something warm and reassuringly familiar.

Your stomach twisted slightly, throat tightening as you inhaled deeply, savoring and hating the painful intimacy of it all. You desperately tried to ignore how every part of your body seemed magnetically drawn toward his, how every single nerve ending screamed at you to turn around, close that tiny, unbearable gap between your bodies, and curl yourself into the comforting warmth Adrian always radiated.

But you stayed still, stubbornly holding yourself away, your breathing carefully controlled. You listened to the soft, steady rhythm of Adrian’s breathing slowly deepening into sleep, focusing on it like an anchor, a lifeline—something solid and real, even when everything else felt impossibly fragile.

Your heart still raced, painfully aware of the quiet, devastating intimacy of lying here with him, feeling so close yet worlds apart. You pressed your eyes shut tighter, fighting the ache in your chest, silently wishing you could summon the courage to speak, to reach out, to let him finally see just how much he meant to you.

Thursdays—those thick, heavy, awkward Thursdays you’d always hated—felt unbearably painful for an entirely new reason.

Because Thursdays were nights you couldn’t pretend. Thursdays were nights when the ache inside you felt overwhelming.
Thursdays were nights when every innocent touch, every soft laugh, every whispered goodnight brought you dangerously close to spilling your secret out loud.

Thursdays weren’t just thick anymore. They were suffocating. Now, Thursdays were the nights you lay awake beside him, afraid of losing everything by saying too much, and just as afraid of staying silent forever.

And each Thursday night, as Adrian’s breathing grew slow and steady beside you, and wished bitterly you’d never noticed how deeply you’d fallen in love with your best friend. Because now, you couldn’t sleep—not like before, not like when Adrian was just Adrian and sharing a bed had been so simple, so easy.

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

At what point, exactly, had you just… stopped?

Stopped pretending it didn’t hurt. Stopped keeping it all so tightly bottled up behind your ribs like it wouldn’t eventually spill out and drown you.

You weren’t sure when the breaking point had started. Maybe it was a slow leak—one little moment at a time, piling up until tonight, when you found yourself sitting on your kitchen floor with a bottle of whatever the hell was left in your cabinet, sad-ass music crawling out of your speaker like it was trying to comfort you. Which was ridiculous. Even your playlist was just enabling the spiral now.

You took a shaky sip, felt the alcohol burn down your throat, and tried to swallow around the lump forming there.

At what point had loving your best friend started to hurt more than it helped?

At what point did the risk—the terrifying, soul-baring risk of telling him that you were in love with him—begin to feel like the safer option?

At what point did laying yourself bare, heart in your hands, feel less like jumping off a cliff and more like dragging yourself out of quicksand?

Apparently… this point.

Rock bottom on a cold linoleum floor, back against the cabinet, with Taylor Swift crooning heartbreak into the half-lit kitchen and a $25 bottle of vodka sloshed into a chipped ceramic mug you bought for a dollar at the op shop by the corner store. Classy, really. A tragic little tableau of emotional collapse, starring you, your delusions, and the playlist you swore you wouldn’t use again.

Because if you were being honest—actually, painfully, couldn’t-lie-to-yourself-anymore honest—there was no fucking way Adrian didn’t already know.

Okay, sure, you hadn’t said it. Not in so many words. You hadn’t sat him down and bared your soul like a romcom lead about to get the guy. But love has a way of leaking out through the cracks, doesn’t it?

And if Adrian was anything, he was observant. For someone who acted like a total himbo half the time, he picked up on the tiniest shifts in behavior. He noticed things other people missed. He had to—he was a vigilante with a kill count and a moral compass that spun like a goddamn roulette wheel. He couldn’t afford not to be perceptive.

So he noticed. You knew he did. He had to have. Because ever since that night a few weeks ago when he showed up on your doorstep without warning, a bottle of Malibu in one hand, and a plastic bag full of comforts Leota had told him to get you, he had become distant.

You thought you’d been subtle. You thought you’d kept the soft parts hidden beneath jokes and sarcasm and safe sort-of normal friendship boundaries.  But maybe you hadn’t been as locked down as you’d hoped. Maybe he did notice the way your voice stuttered slightly when you were around him, or how your skin broke out in goosebumps every time his hand brushed your arm, or how you lingered a second too long when you hugged him goodbye.

Maybe—probably—he saw the way you looked at him. And maybe he put two and two together.

But it wasn’t like he’d said anything. He hadn’t pulled you aside and gone, “Hey, I noticed you’re acting weirder than usual. I finally get it—and no, I don’t feel the same way.”

No. He hadn’t given you that. Not even rejection. Just... distance.

Not the physical kind of distance—not really. He still showed up. Still texted you in the middle of the night with memes that made zero sense unless you were already half-asleep. Still called you “dude” like it wasn’t the most tragically platonic nickname in the world. Still bitched about his coworkers like it was a sport. Still did his dumb little voices when he told stories, and still insisted on forcing you to watch his “cinematic masterpieces”—which, for the record, were usually the worst movies ever made.

He still felt like Adrian. Still sounded like him. But underneath all that surface-level chaos, something had shifted. Something quiet, invisible, but tangible. Like standing in a room after a storm—you could feel the pressure drop in your chest even if everything looked normal.

He hadn’t rejected you. Hadn’t even acknowledged it. Which meant you were left with the worst possible alternative:

He got weird.

Weirder than usual.

And considering Adrian Chase lived in a perpetual state of chaos-goblin oddball, the fact that you even noticed meant it had to be bad.

It started subtly. His eye contact got… off. He used to look at you like he wasn’t just seeing you, but studying you—like you were the most interesting puzzle he’d ever tried to solve. But now? His gaze hovered just beside you, like your shoulder was suddenly more fascinating than your face. And when he did meet your eyes, it was too quick. A flash of something—heat, guilt, something—before he snapped his head away like he’d touched something hot. Like he’d been caught.

Then there was the touching.

Or more accurately, the absence of it.

Adrian had never been shy about casual affection. He was a chronic shoulder-bumper, leaner, arm-slinger. The kind of guy who didn’t seem to know what personal space was with you. You’d always chalked it up to him being tactile, affectionate in his own offbeat way. It never felt forced. It just felt… Adrian.

But now? Now he flinched.

The first time you noticed was when you passed him a drink and your fingers brushed. A blink-and-you’d-miss-it moment. But you didn’t miss it. His whole body jerked like he’d touched an open wire. He muttered a thanks and immediately found something—anything—else to look at.

Then came the distance. He still sat next to you, sure. But always with this buffer. A few inches that hadn’t existed before. Like space alone could keep things from boiling over. He’d pick the armchair instead of the couch. Sit on the other end of the blanket. Knees bouncing. Fingers tapping. Picking at labels, tugging at hoodie strings, cracking his knuckles so much it made you ache. The physical stillness he used to have around you—the sense of ease—it was gone. Like your proximity put him on edge. Like his body didn’t trust him to be near you anymore.

And he’d started doing this thing, too. He’d open his mouth like he was about to say something and then freeze. Just stand there, eyes on you, words poised on the tip of his tongue… and then he’d shut it all down. Shake his head. Mutter something dumb, off-topic, and walk away.

You’d watch him go, heart caught in your throat, wondering what it was he couldn’t say.

And his jokes. God, his jokes.

Adrian always joked. It was as natural to him as breathing—his defense mechanism, his love language, his way of making the world just a little less bleak.

But lately?

They were off. Misfiring. Like the punchlines didn’t land because he didn’t commit to them. He’d throw out something ridiculous, then immediately glance away like he regretted it.

And the silences? Those were the worst.

You used to share the best kind of silences—the comfortable, easy kind. The ones where you'd both sit in the same room doing your own thing, no pressure to fill the space. Where the sound of a page turning or a soft sigh or a quiet laugh at something on his phone was enough.

But now?

The silences had weight. Tension. They ached.

They stretched between you like a taut wire, vibrating with the words neither of you would say. You’d catch him staring, jaw tight, foot bouncing, like he was arguing with himself. Like saying anything might set the whole thing on fire.

And then came the nights he stopped staying over.

He still walked you home, still made sure you got in safe. But at the door? He always had an excuse. Some reason why he couldn’t stay. Laundry. Errands. Cleaning.

“Since when do you mop your floors?” you asked one afternoon, watching him fumble with his keys like they were made of glass.

He straightened his spine, puffed his chest out a little like a soldier getting ready to deliver a report. “Since I have a—uh—a house inspection.”

You blinked at him. “A house inspection?”

“Yeah,” he nodded, far too quickly. “Gotta, you know… make sure the place looks good, you know, landlords.”

You squinted. “Did you want some help?” you asked slowly, trying not to sound too suspicious.

“No!” he said, almost too fast. “Nope. I’m—I’m fine. I’m all good. You just—you just keep doing your thing,” he added, flashing that painfully fake smile he only used when he was trying to cover up something serious. “Keep being awesome.”

And then he turned and practically jogged down the hall.

You stood in the doorway, watching the empty space he left behind, your chest tight with a cocktail of frustration, longing, and confusion.

But it wasn’t just your gut—or the way Adrian had been acting—that made it undeniable.

It was Leota and Peacemaker who all but confirmed that Adrian had your feelings for him pegged.

You hadn’t meant to overhear it. Shit you were on your phone messaging your mom that no, you weren’t dead, and yes you might drive down for a visit sometime soon, and yes you might bring Adrian if he is still alive.

You weren’t trying to torture yourself. It was supposed to be a normal night—well, normal for your little dysfunctional family of vigilantes. The 11th Street Kids had gone out to this dingy dive bar across town, the kind of place that sold greasy food for less than minimum wage and drinks that tasted vaguely like regret and cleaning products. Which, for your crew, was kind of perfect.

Usually, on nights like that, Adrian would be right there. Next to you. Practically glued to your side, leaning against you at the bar like he had no concept of personal space. And you hadn’t minded. Hell, you lived for that kind of closeness. The way his arm would press against yours, solid and warm, the faint smell of his cologne—clean, sharp, always a little too much but so him—curling into your lungs like a drug.

But not that night.

That night, Adrian kept his distance.

He didn’t avoid you completely—no, that would’ve been too obvious. Too easy to clock. Instead, he lingered around you without ever really being with you. Orbiting your space like a satellite afraid to make contact. He still did his usual things—still bought you a drink or two without being asked, still ordered extra fries and slid them your way like he always did—but there was no warmth in it.

No comfort. No playful shoulder bumps. No sideways glances. Just a polite kind of detachment that made your skin crawl.

You tried to play it cool. Tried to laugh at Peacemaker’s bullshit, tried to act like the cheap vodka soda in your hand didn’t taste like disappointment. But your heart was pounding too loud, and every time Adrian looked in your direction and then quickly looked away, it was like a knife twisting in your ribs.

And then, while Adrian was up at the bar—probably ordering another round or pretending to read the drinks menu he already knew by heart—that’s when it happened.

Peacemaker, Christopher fucking Smith, in the subtle-as-a-bomb way only he possessed, leaned in across the sticky tabletop and nodded toward the bar.

“You think he finally figured it out?” he asked, low but not that low, one eyebrow raised, his voice only slightly muffled by the mouthful of fries he was shoveling in.

Leota didn’t even hesitate. Just gave a knowing look, eyes narrowed and lips curled into that little smirk she wore when she’d solved a mystery ten minutes before anyone else. “Oh, he absolutely figured it out,” she said with a slow, deliberate nod.

And that’s when your stomach fell through the floor.

Actually, it felt like it dropped out of your ass, if you were being honest.

Everything inside you went cold. Your drink suddenly tasted like nothing. Your skin prickled like you'd just been dunked in ice water.

They knew. He knew.

And worst of all? You had no idea what he was going to do with that knowledge. What he was doing with it. Because clearly, he wasn’t doing the one thing you needed—talking to you.

You barely managed to choke out some half-assed excuse about having period cramps and needing to go home. Nobody questioned it. Leota just gave you a sympathetic look. Peacemaker grunted and raised his glass in what might’ve been solidarity or indifference—you couldn’t tell, and you didn’t stick around to figure it out.

You grabbed your jacket, pulling it tight around you like armor, and bolted from the bar before anyone else could say a word—before Adrian could return from the bar with drinks in hand, before Peacemaker could toss another careless remark, before Leota could flash you another pitying look. You left before the full crushing weight of this whole messy thing could slam down on you again.

And now you were here weeks later, alone, sitting on your cold kitchen floor with Taylor Swift's voice pouring softly through your speakers, weaving heartbreak into every corner of the dimly lit room. And wasn't that fitting, because heartbreak—that sharp, relentless ache—was exactly what this felt like. It felt like grief and loss, like mourning something that hadn’t even died yet. You couldn't breathe around the heaviness in your chest.

Maybe it would have been easier—less painful, certainly—to storm straight over to Adrian’s apartment, to pound on his door until he let you in, and shout in his stupidly charming, confused face that none of this was supposed to happen. That you never meant to fall in love with him. That you would gladly shove all these inconvenient, gut-wrenching feelings into a box and set it on fire if it meant keeping him in your life, even if only as a friend.

But you wouldn't apologize. Never. You wouldn't apologize for feeling something you had no control over. Love wasn’t something you chose—it crashed into you without permission, messy and wild and unstoppable. This wasn’t on you, and deep down, you knew it wasn’t really on Adrian either. It was a cruel twist of fate, an accident of circumstance, and now here you were, trapped in the ugly aftermath of loving someone who couldn’t—or wouldn’t—love you back.

The fear that gnawed at your stomach made you sick: were you losing him? The odds felt pretty fucking high. Adrian didn't exactly have the best track record with this kind of thing. Hell, you'd seen firsthand how he reacted to any semblance of genuine romantic interest. The memory replayed vividly in your mind: the poor girl from work who’d straight-up told Adrian she wanted to fuck his brains out. He’d stood frozen, wide-eyed behind his glasses, before earnestly asking her, "Why would you want to fuck my brains? That sounds medically concerning."

You and Peacemaker had both groaned simultaneously, dropping your heads into your hands, exasperated. “Fuck’s sake, Adrian,” you'd muttered into your palms as Adrian recounted the moment in baffled sincerity.

He wasn't hopeless with women—not entirely. You’d seen him charm plenty of people, even if mostly unintentionally. But you also knew something deeper: Adrian struggled profoundly with believing anyone could genuinely like him, let alone love him. The idea of someone sticking around through all his mess and chaos was foreign territory. Dangerous territory. It frightened him.

But you weren’t just anyone. You were his best friend, woven into the very fabric of his life since high school. You'd seen him through countless awkward phases, through failures and triumphs, through heartbreak and his rare moments of quiet vulnerability. Your bond ran so deep that even your friends—Harcourt and Economos—had joked about how strange it was to see you without your "overprotective shadow."

And maybe that was why it hurt so badly now. Because the loss of Adrian wouldn’t just be heartbreak—it would feel like losing a part of yourself, an essential piece of your life that couldn't simply be replaced.

You tilted your head back against the kitchen cabinet, eyes stinging with tears you refused to let fall. Not tonight. Tonight was for grieving in solitude, for acknowledging the full, painful weight of your best friend.

Tomorrow, you'd figure out how to survive it.

“Why aren’t you dressed?”

You stood frozen, barely awake, staring at Adrian on your doorstep like you’d summoned him from memory or a dream. He looked like he always did—hands stuffed deep in his jacket pockets, the faintest ghost of a smile tugging at his mouth, that tousled hair that never sat quite right. For a moment, you wondered if you were still dreaming. For a moment, you wished you were.

You tried to remember the last time he’d shown up like this, just existing in your space without all the awkwardness that had built up between you. It hurt, realizing you had to think back weeks.

Your own voice sounded weird in your ears, scratchy with sleep and something heavier, something more brittle. “What are you doing here?”
You caught a glimpse of yourself in the hall mirror—tracksuit pants, oversized jumper, hair twisted up in a way only someone in the depths of a depressive spiral could manage. You hadn’t planned to see anyone today, let alone him.

He shrugged, so casual, so Adrian. “I messaged you. At, like, nine.”

You fought the urge to roll your eyes, clutching the door a little tighter, bracing yourself as if you were holding back a flood. “My phone died. It’s on charge.” You kept your tone level, tried not to let the shakiness slip in. “So… what’s the deal?”

You hated that you sounded annoyed. Hated that you were annoyed, that your relief and happiness at seeing him were all knotted up with hurt and frustration. But the truth was, for all the ways he’d kept his distance lately, you’d missed him so much it felt like something vital had been scooped out of your chest and replaced with static.

He didn’t notice your tone—of course he didn’t. Or maybe he did, and just didn’t know what to do with it. He stood there, confused, shifting his weight, and you could practically see the little wheels turning in his head.

“What do you mean?” he asked, brow furrowing, and you almost laughed. It was so Adrian—so blindingly, heartbreakingly him—to be this genuinely confused.

The frustration broke through. “You’ve been weird,” you said, as if that was enough to sum up weeks of aching silence and missed connections. “Very weird. Around me.”

He tilted his head, blinking at you like he was trying to decipher a foreign language. “What do you mean?” He repeated it slowly, like maybe you’d start making sense if he just gave you enough time.

You stepped back, holding the door open wider. “Get inside.” Your words came out sharper than you intended, and you regretted it instantly. Still, you needed him in your space, in the familiar chaos of your living room, where maybe—just maybe—you could find your way back to whatever you’d lost.

You watched him flop onto your couch, taking up the same spot he always had, sprawling out like he owned the place. For a split second, you wanted to cry just from the relief of seeing him there—of seeing something that felt like normal. Even if it was just an illusion.

You hovered by the armchair, arms crossed over your chest, searching for words. “You’ve been… not you. Like you haven’t been staying over, or hanging out, like you’re trying to avoid me.”

You waited, pulse pounding in your throat, every nerve on edge. What if he denied it? What if he confirmed your worst fears?

Adrian just stared at his hands, picking at a loose thread on his sleeve, silent for a long, painful moment. “Isn’t that what you wanted?” he finally said, voice careful and uncertain, like he was afraid you’d snap.

The words hit you like a punch. All your fear, your longing, your frustration tangled into one big mess. You felt your chest tighten, panic rising. Was that what he really thought? That you wanted him gone? The person you couldn’t stop thinking about, couldn’t stop missing, even as he was sitting right in front of you?

“What?” you asked, disbelieving, your voice barely above a whisper.

He looked up, eyes earnest and open and a little bit scared. “You’ve been weird around me for months. So I thought… I dunno, maybe you wanted me to back off. Give you space.”

You could see it then—the nervous way he bit his lip, the way his shoulders hunched in on themselves, like he was trying to make himself smaller. It hit you all at once: all this time, while you’d been convinced he was pulling away because he knew, he’d been pulling away because he thought you wanted him gone.

You swallowed, throat tight, and shook your head. “You’re an idiot,” you blurted, not even bothering to sugarcoat it. You didn’t have the energy to.

He blinked, taken aback, your tone cutting through the haze.

“I thought you knew,” you said, and your voice came out cracked and desperate and just this side of pleading.

“Knew what?” he shot back, matching your intensity with confusion.

You almost said it, right then and there. The words burned at the back of your throat, trembling on the edge of your lips, and you had to physically force yourself to bite them back. You paced for a second, trying to steady your hands, your breath, your heart.

You glanced up at the ceiling, hoping it would ground you, then looked him dead in the eye. “I didn’t want you gone,” you admitted, voice thick. “I didn’t want you to stop texting me all day, every day. I didn’t want you to stop crashing here, or stealing my bed and my good pillow. I didn’t want you to stop… being you. Being here. Like you always were.”

You watched him, heart pounding, as you let the truth settle between you. He looked stunned—like someone had hit him with something soft and heavy. His whole body shifted, shoulders slumping, his breathing going a little shallow, but you could see something shift in his eyes—something unguarded, something that looked an awful lot like relief.

“Oh,” he said, the word catching in his throat, small and raw and uncertain. He searched your face, waiting, almost afraid to move, “So… what did you think I knew?”

And just like that, the air thickened. You realized you were holding your breath. Everything you’d buried, every fear, every hope, every inch of longing, crashed through you like a tidal wave.

You stood there, hands on your hips, every muscle in your body tense. The room felt impossibly quiet. The faint hum of your fridge, the whisper of wind outside, even the soft scuff of Adrian’s shoe against your rug—they all sounded distant, muffled by the wild beating of your own heart.

He was watching you. Not with his usual goofy grin or oblivious half-smile, but with a kind of wary openness you hadn’t seen in weeks. There was something soft in his eyes now, something almost vulnerable, like he was waiting for you to break the spell—waiting for you to give him permission to breathe again.

But you couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak. Every thought spun out, looping in anxious circles:

He thought you wanted him gone. He thought you needed space. How could he not see it? How could he not see you were only acting weird because you loved him—because you were so fucking scared you couldn’t stand it?

You looked at him, really looked, and realized just how badly you’d missed this: the way he fit into your space like he belonged there. The way his stupid, worn-out hoodie was still slung over the arm of your couch from weeks ago, because you could never bring yourself to wash it, let alone put it away.

You were angry at him, yes—but mostly, you were angry at yourself. For making this so complicated. For never being brave enough to say what you felt. For letting fear run the show, for letting your own longing fester and turn everything good between you sour.

You wondered what he was thinking now. If he could see it on your face, the truth you’d tried so hard to bury. If he was as scared as you. If he was hoping you’d say it, or terrified that you would.

He shifted, elbows on his knees, rubbing his hands together in that nervous way he did when he was unsure. He wasn’t saying anything either. You realized, suddenly, that he was waiting for you.

It was all there, thick in the air—every word you hadn’t said, every feeling you’d tried to stuff down, every sleepless night spent staring at your phone, hoping for one more message from him just to know he was thinking of you.

You felt raw. Exposed. You wondered if it would always feel like this—if you’d always be teetering on the edge, one breath away from everything changing forever.

You tried to picture saying it. Just letting it fall out.

 I’m in love with you.

It would be so easy, but it would be everything. The thought made your stomach clench, made your hands shake, made your chest feel impossibly tight.

But the words stayed trapped in your mouth. Stuck behind your teeth, your lips, your fear.

You wished, for once, that he could just see into your mind and know. That all the things you couldn’t say would somehow make their way to him without you having to say a single word. You just didn’t know if you were brave enough—not yet. Not now, not while your heart felt like a live wire inside your chest, sparking with every breath, every glance. Not when the stakes felt so impossibly high, and everything familiar teetered on the edge of becoming something new.

So you chickened out, swallowing the truth and settling for something lighter, something safer.

You mustered up your best casual voice, though it wobbled a little. “So what brings you into my humble abode at 11am?” You moved to the couch, sitting beside him, careful but desperate for that old, easy proximity. Even the faint brush of his leg against yours was a comfort and a curse—so normal, so dangerous.

He leaned back into the cushions, close enough you could feel his warmth bleeding into you, and gave you that wide, blinding smile—the one that had always been your undoing. For a moment, everything felt just a little bit right, like the last few weeks had been a fever dream you could wake up from.

“There’s a two-for-one deal on enchiladas at that Mexican place down the street,” he announced, like it was a perfectly logical reason to show up uninvited and bang on your door before noon. “I thought you’d want to go get one. We could eat them on the bridge. You know, people-watch and judge strangers.”

You found yourself smiling, real and unguarded, the weight in your chest lightening just a little. His words wrapped around you, tugging you back through years of memories. You listened as he launched into a story, somehow managing to link enchiladas to the time when you were nineteen and both of you had driven two counties over just to find a diner with those ridiculous milkshakes and the straws that tasted like fake strawberry and childhood.

You watched his face as he talked, the way he animated every story with his hands, the way his eyes lit up at your laugh. It was impossible not to smile, not to feel that hope rise up again, stubborn and stupid and strong.

“I’ll need to shower,” you said, the words slipping out without thinking, not wanting to break the spell but knowing you couldn’t go out in your current state.

He glanced you up and down, “You smell fine,” he told you, utterly sincere, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

You huffed a little laugh, shaking your head. “That’s not the point.” You got to your feet, suddenly feeling lighter, the possibility of normalcy—of something better than heartbreak—warming you from the inside. “I’ll be back.”

He immediately reached for the remote, flipping through channels with the determined focus only Adrian could bring to the art of procrastination. “Hey, do you have any of those biscuits with the green stuff in them?” he called out, half his attention already on the screen.

“Maybe?” you replied, pausing to glance over your shoulder at him. He was leaning forward, scanning the coffee table for snacks, the remote dangling from his fingers. For a moment, he looked up and caught your eye, and you felt something in your chest twist—fondness, longing, gratitude, and a sharp ache for something more. “Have a look,” you offered, smiling helplessly.

He grinned, the expression lighting up his whole face with that earnest enthusiasm you’d always loved, nodding with the kind of seriousness that only Adrian could bring to the quest for snacks. “Don’t take too long,” he told you, already halfway to the kitchen, eyes scanning the countertop for biscuit tins like he was on a secret mission. You couldn’t help but watch him, the way he moved so easily in your space—elbowing open the pantry door, humming something tuneless, talking to himself about whether you’d hidden the good cookies again. He didn’t ask where anything was. He never had to.

The image of him rooting around for snacks, as if he’d always belonged in your kitchen, landed somewhere deep inside you. It was familiarity, comfort, a kind of home you couldn’t quite put words to. It hurt, a little, how much you missed this—how much you needed it, how much you still wanted more.

You lingered in the doorway, hand braced on the frame, and felt your heart thumping wild and hard beneath your ribs. The room was filled with the aftershocks of everything you’d left unspoken, every heavy silence, every confession bitten back and every hope you’d nearly let slip. They echoed in your bones, sharp and electric and alive.

And yet, with him here—just a few steps away, grumbling about off-brand biscuits and probably reorganizing your mugs for the hundredth time—you felt something settle. Like maybe you could find your way back to the way things used to be.

You could do this.

You could pretend for a little longer that nothing had changed, that the world hadn’t shifted underneath you. You could ignore the sting, ignore the ache of those three words always burning on the tip of your tongue every time you saw him—I love you, I love you, I love you. You could let yourself fall into the old rhythms, the easy banter, the stupid snack quests and bridge picnics, just like always.

You closed your eyes for a second, breathing deep, letting the familiar smells of your apartment and the faint sound of Adrian rummaging around settle you. Just for now, it was enough. Just for now, you could pretend it was all the same.

You could do this.

You straightened, pushing off from the doorframe, telling yourself you were strong enough to survive whatever came next. Adrian and you. You and Adrian. It had always been the two of you against the world, and you’d gotten through worse. Surely you could get through this, too.

You could do this.

At least, that’s what you told yourself as you headed to the bathroom, trying not to think about the moment when pretending wouldn’t be enough anymore.

You absolutely could not do this. The realization hit you somewhere between the first and second bite of your enchilada, staring down at the half-eaten mess in your lap as your feet dangled high above the river below. The drop from the bridge was so much farther than you remembered. It felt like staring into the abyss—cold, bracing, and far too real.

Adrian sat next to you, legs swinging lazily in the empty space. He was watching the water, his eyes squinted in mock concentration, voice low and thoughtful as he broke the silence.

“You think if you throw someone off here they’d sink, or would it be too shallow?” he mused, as if contemplating logistics for a hypothetical crime rather than the unspoken tension hanging between you.

You almost laughed, almost raised your hand to volunteer as tribute if it meant escaping this ache in your chest, this relentless pressure that refused to ease. Instead, you replied dryly, “Probably too shallow. The sheriff was telling everyone a few months ago to stop swimming in it because people were getting hurt.” You grabbed the bottle you were both sharing and took a long drink from it.

Adrian nodded, half under his breath, “Probably deserved it.”

You smiled despite yourself. He always said shit like that—blunt, absurd, a little too honest. You could smell him—cologne and sweat, summer air and something that was just him. You could feel him, too, not just at your side but pressed up against the inside of your ribs, filling your whole chest with a bittersweet comfort. He started rambling again, voice light, eyes crinkling at the corners as he turned toward you.

He asked if you wanted to go see that new horror movie next weekend, the one he’d been talking about for months, rattling off the showtimes and telling you how it had “at least two chainsaw chases” and “zero romantic subplots—promise.”

“Yeah, that sounds good,” you managed, but your voice was thin, barely holding up against the knot in your stomach. The hunger you’d felt earlier had vanished, replaced with something heavier—an ache, a vice tightening around your heart, leaving you feeling hollow and brittle and sick.

You didn’t want to cry. Not here, not in front of him. But it was building. This constant ache, this slow burn that wouldn’t let you eat or breathe or move. You were stuck, caught on the words you still hadn’t said, strangled by the fear of what might happen if you finally let them out.

Adrian must have noticed the way your leg started to swing or maybe he just felt the way the mood shifted. He nudged your knee gently, grounding you with that simple touch.

“Hey?” he said, his voice softer than usual, all the humor gone. “We don’t have to if you don’t want to. I mean, I’m an idiot and made you sad by thinking you didn’t want to see me for the past few weeks, so I owe you anyway.” He snapped his fingers, trying to lighten the mood. “We could go to that arcade outside Star City? Make a day of it. I’ll let you beat me at air hockey. One time only offer.”

Don’t say it, you warned yourself, the words looping in your mind like a broken record. Don’t let it out. Just shove the rest of the food in your mouth, nod along, agree to whatever movie plans he’s got. Anything would be easier than sitting in a car for hours with him, suffocating in this closeness, feeling every glance and every silence like it’s going to split you in half.

But the knot in your stomach wouldn’t budge. The ache in your chest kept swelling, pressing against your ribs, your throat, your eyes. It wasn’t going away, not this time, not like it always used to.

You glanced at him, hoping for a distraction, for anything to break the spell. But he wasn’t distracted—not this time. He put his food down, turned fully toward you, and you could feel the intensity of his gaze pinning you in place. You couldn’t remember the last time he’d given you his full attention like this—no jokes, no wandering thoughts, no twitchy energy. Just Adrian, still and quiet, waiting.

He watched you with a seriousness that made your hands shake. There was no joking in his expression, no feigned confusion or nervous smile. Just concern—real, raw, unfiltered. You’d seen him calm under fire, laugh through pain, shrug off bullet wounds like they were minor annoyances. But now? He looked more worried for you than he ever had when you were actually hurt.

You forced yourself to focus on the world outside your skin: the breeze tangling your hair, the distant sound of cars on the highway, the echo of water somewhere below. You tried to act normal, to pretend you could just sit here and eat and joke around, but the truth was, your thoughts felt like a pile-up on a one-lane bridge—crashing, chaotic, impossible to escape.

Adrian picked up his half-finished enchilada, nudging your knee gently with his as he started to talk again, filling the silence with stories about work, about a viral video he’d seen of a cat in a shark costume riding a Roomba. His voice was easy, animated, but every so often he would flick his gaze toward you, quick and searching, as if trying to read the truth behind your silence.

You nodded along, making the right noises, but it was mostly habit. You weren’t really there—not all the way. Inside, you were split in two: one part clinging desperately to this moment, this bridge, this ordinary day with Adrian by your side; the other part quietly breaking apart under the weight of everything you’d never said.

You could feel him watching you—soft, sidelong glances, his foot brushing yours, his knee bumping into your leg every few minutes just to remind you he was still there, still solid, still him. It should have been comforting, but instead it made your skin buzz, made your heart kick up in your chest, made the ache in your throat that much worse.

You tried to swallow it all down, to focus on anything else—on the way the river sparkled in the sunlight, the way the trees cast shifting shadows over your shoes, the taste of food you couldn’t even remember picking up. But you couldn’t shake the feeling that every word you didn’t say was growing louder, pressing at the back of your teeth, burning a hole in your chest.

Why is this so hard?
Because you knew what would happen if you said it. The risk. The possibility that it would ruin everything, that the fragile, perfect thing you had would shatter the second you admitted you wanted more.
But wasn’t it already ruined? Hadn’t the distance, the weirdness, the half-truths already begun to erode what you had?

He was still talking—something about the arcade, about the old skee-ball machines you always beat him at, about how he was “definitely not holding a grudge, but next time, you’re not allowed to use your freakishly accurate aim.”

You almost smiled, despite the ache. He was trying so hard, filling the air with the easy banter that used to fix everything, but you could tell he knew something was off. You could feel his attention, the way his voice softened every time he glanced at you, the worry that colored his words.

You wondered what he saw when he looked at you—if he could see the mess inside, the way your mind was spinning out, the way your heart was beating too hard, too fast. If he knew that you were fighting yourself with every breath, holding back tears you couldn’t explain, hoping for a sign—any sign—that he might feel it too.

You wanted to say something. Anything. You wanted to reach for his hand, to lean your head on his shoulder, to let the truth slip out in a tumble of words and hope he’d catch you.

But you were afraid. Afraid of what it would mean, of what you’d lose, of how the world might tilt if you let the truth escape.

So you stayed quiet, nodding at the right moments, giving half-smiles that didn’t quite reach your eyes, praying he couldn’t hear the storm raging just beneath your skin. Every time his knee brushed yours, you felt another piece of your resolve splinter.

But still, Adrian kept glancing at you, his sentences drifting off into unfinished thoughts, the furrow in his brow deepening every time you pulled further into yourself. He didn’t press, didn’t ask what was wrong, didn’t force you to talk. He just kept going, his voice gentle and careful, letting the conversation fill the space between you in a way that felt more like comfort than avoidance. Maybe he was giving you room to breathe. Maybe he was just waiting, sensing you were teetering on the edge of something, and not wanting to rush you.

You wondered if he knew how close you were to falling apart.

Your thoughts were a storm, swirling behind your eyes. Just say it, your mind screamed at you. Just say it, you coward. I love you. Three little words. If he rejected you, at least you’d have an answer—no more what-ifs, no more aching, no more endless wondering if you were imagining the hope in his eyes or the tenderness in his voice.

When he rejects you, you told yourself. Because that’s how your heart protected itself—from hope, from disappointment, from the fallout that would come after. When he rejects you, you’ll finally be able to let go.

When he rejects you, you’ll—

“I love you,” you blurted. The words tumbled out of your mouth before you could stop them, raw and breathless, too loud in the quiet air between you. The world didn’t end. The sky didn’t fall. The bridge didn’t collapse beneath your feet.

But Adrian did go silent.

Utterly, completely silent.

The steady hum of traffic, the breeze against your face, the distant call of a bird somewhere downriver—suddenly, it was all you could hear. The silence between you was immense, a living thing that pressed in on every side. You stared at the river below, eyes fixed on the way the light caught the surface, refusing to look at him. Not yet. Not while your pulse was still hammering in your ears.

And yet… something inside you, that knot you’d been carrying for so long, finally started to unravel. The thumping in your chest hadn’t gone away—it had grown, wild and uncontainable—but the sick twist in your stomach had eased, like you’d been holding your breath for months and finally, finally let it go.

Because now he knew.

He really knew. Not just hints or glances or almost-confessions. Not just hoping he’d pick up the signs. Now there was no question. No running. No pretending you could just be friends and keep it locked away.

For a brief, dizzying second, you almost felt relieved.

Rejection you could deal with—eventually. That was pain you understood, pain you could grieve and get past in time. But another second spent swallowing your feelings, holding them hostage inside your own chest? That was agony. That was breaking you.

You kept your eyes fixed ahead, blinking rapidly, focusing on the gentle ripple of the water far below as your heart raced and your hands went clammy in your lap. You waited. The silence pressed in, thick and tense, but this time you welcomed it. Let it settle around you. At least now it was honest.

You didn’t dare look at him. Not yet. Not until you were ready for whatever came next.

But you could feel him beside you—could feel the way all his usual fidgeting had stopped cold, how his whole body went perfectly still, almost rigid, like he’d been caught in a trap he didn’t know how to escape. You could hear the subtle change in his breathing—how it slowed, grew careful, measured, as if he was afraid to disturb the moment by even inhaling too loudly. For a heartbeat, it felt like the whole world was holding its breath with you. The river below, the air, the traffic far away—everything seemed to hush, waiting for the fallout.

And whatever happened next, at least you knew, finally, that you’d been brave enough to say it. You’d stepped off the ledge. You’d done the thing that had been clawing at you for months. Maybe it would hurt. Maybe it would break you. Maybe it would change everything forever.

But it was real. It was out there. It was yours.

Adrian was silent for a long moment, so quiet that you almost thought you’d made it up—that you’d imagined saying it, or that he hadn’t heard you at all. Then, just as your courage was beginning to fray, he moved. Not with the drama or shock you’d been expecting, but with absurd, baffling casualness.

“Oh,” he said simply, as if you’d just told him the weather forecast. He didn’t look at you—just nodded once, lips pressed in a thoughtful line, and then, impossibly, took another bite of his food, “Okay,” he added, as if you’d asked him to pass the salt.

He chewed, nodded again, as if he were confirming something on a grocery list. There was no explosion. No confession. Not even a question. Just that flat, almost bored “Okay.”

And for a moment, you saw red.

You wanted to push him off the bridge yourself—fuck the sheriff’s warnings. You imagined it in vivid detail: the surprise on his face, the indignant yelp as he splashed into the water below, the satisfaction of finally doing something with all the electric energy crackling under your skin.

Of all the responses you’d braced yourself for—shock, anger, discomfort, even a gentle letdown—this was not it. You’d prepared yourself for tears, for heartbreak, for having to pick up the pieces of whatever came after. But nothing could have readied you for this bizarre, maddening nonchalance.

You turned to look at him, finally, your mouth hanging open, every thought in your head dissolving into static. You stared at his profile—at the stubborn line of his jaw, the oblivious set of his mouth, the way he kept eating as if you hadn’t just torn yourself open for him.

He was still chewing, eyes fixed on the horizon, as if waiting for you to continue, or for something else to happen.

You stared, flabbergasted, torn between hysterical laughter and the urge to throttle him, “Are you fucking serious, Chase?” you blurted, your voice sharp, incredulous. “Did you hear what I just said?”

He glanced at you, finally—eyes wide, eyebrows raised like you’d asked him the impossible question. He looked a little startled, a little lost, but mostly… calm. “Yeah,” he said, licking sauce from his thumb. “You said you love me.” He paused, frowned, as if running over the sentence again in his head. “I heard you.”

You opened your mouth, shut it, then opened it again, the words tangling on your tongue. You weren’t sure whether you wanted to laugh, scream, or just start crying right there on the bridge.

Adrian just looked at you, patient, as if he honestly expected you to have more to say. As if what you’d said was the most obvious, natural thing in the world.

And for a moment, all you could do was stare back, utterly undone—by your own courage, by his utter weirdness, and by the impossible, ridiculous, maddening hope that maybe, just maybe, this wasn’t the end after all.

Chapter Text

You didn’t know what was worse: the sound of Adrian’s voice, so calm and measured, or the absolute chaos inside your own body—the way every muscle was coiled so tight it felt like you’d shatter with a single wrong word. You’d finally said it, finally torn open your chest and poured your heart out onto the sun-warmed concrete, and Adrian… was just sitting there. Calm. Unbothered. Like you’d told him something as mundane as the time of day.

You stared at him, searching his face for any sign of reaction, of understanding, of anything that could help you make sense of this. Nothing. Just Adrian, looking at you with patient curiosity, as if you’d simply stated your order at a drive-thru.

“And?” you demanded, unable to keep the desperation out of your voice. Your heart hammered so loudly you could hear it in your ears.

“And what?” he replied, genuinely confused, his brow furrowing as he looked between your face and his nearly finished enchilada.

You wanted to scream. Or cry. Or laugh until you collapsed. You wanted to strangle him, you really did—just wrap your hands around his neck and shake some goddamn sense into him. You’d been frustrated by Adrian’s obliviousness before, sure. There’d been a hundred little moments over the years when he’d missed the point, when he’d failed to pick up on the obvious. But this? This was the absolute fucking peak.

You slapped your hands down hard on your thighs, the sharp sound echoing across the empty bridge. “You know what? I have to go,” you blurted, the words coming out fast and uneven. You couldn’t sit here another second, couldn’t handle another moment of his blank, wide-eyed confusion.

You moved, scrambling off the edge, brushing dirt and crumbs and bits of gravel off your pants, trying to hold yourself together. Your hands were shaking and your mouth felt dry, like you’d just sprinted a mile and couldn’t catch your breath.

Adrian jerked up as soon as you did, nearly dropping what was left of his food, eyes wide and startled. “Wait, what? Why?” he stammered, his expression shifting from confusion to something much softer, almost wounded—a kicked-dog look that made your anger flare and your heart twist all at once.

He stood there, clutching his enchilada, watching you as if you were about to vanish before his eyes. There was a little fleck of sauce on his chin, and you hated that some distant, traitorous part of you still wanted to reach out and wipe it away.

You felt your throat tighten, your eyes sting. “Because,” you managed, voice breaking, “I just—” You broke off, swallowing the rest. You couldn’t explain it. You couldn’t bear to stand here and try to teach Adrian how to react to something that should be so obvious, so simple, so big.

He stepped toward you, concern etched all over his face, the confusion there but mixed now with a rising panic. “Did I do something wrong?” he asked quietly, almost in a whisper, as if he was afraid to spook you any further.

You stared at him, hands balled into fists, every part of you trembling with the weight of everything you’d finally said, and everything he still hadn’t.

“Forget it,” you muttered, looking down at your feet, blinking fast against the tears threatening to spill. “Just… forget it, Adrian.”

You turned away, needing air, needing distance, needing something to break the tension that was slowly crushing you from the inside out.

And behind you, you heard Adrian’s voice, softer than you’d ever heard it before—small, lost, pleading: “Hey—wait. Please don’t go.”

God, you hated that. Hated the sound of him like that, so unsteady, so unlike the reckless, fearless Adrian who charged headfirst into gunfights and arguments and every disaster you’d ever shared. You could picture his face without looking—the confusion, the genuine hurt, the desperate twist in his mouth that said he had no idea how he’d messed up, only that he had. That was the worst part. He hadn’t even done anything wrong. He’d just been… Adrian.

Your Adrian.

Socially clueless, always five steps behind in any emotional conversation, but a genius at knowing when you needed him in every other way. Your best friend. Your partner in crime, your ride-or-die, your murder twin, the only person who ever made you feel truly seen. The fucking love of your life.

You stopped, breathing hard, every muscle vibrating with pent-up energy and everything you’d held inside for so long. You turned, finally meeting his eyes, and saw every bit of worry and confusion you’d imagined was there.

“You just—you don’t get it,” you said, your voice trembling with exhaustion and frustration and heartbreak. “I mean, shit, Adrian. I’ve spent months… months dealing with this. Wanting to say it, scared to ruin everything. I finally tell you and all you can say is ‘oh?’” The word came out bitter, sharp as a blade.

He took a cautious step forward, searching your face, his brows drawn together. “What am I meant to say?” he asked, honestly, as if the answer was written somewhere between your eyes and your mouth if he could just read you well enough.

You let out a shaky, incredulous laugh, flinging your hands into the air. “Something, Adrian! Anything more than that. Tell me you don’t feel the same. Tell me you’re freaked out, or that I’ve ruined it, or—fuck, just give me something I can move on with. Give me an answer. Give me closure. Just don’t… don’t act like I just asked you what you want for dinner.”

He chewed his lip, his hands fidgeting at his sides, face earnest and open and so, so lost. “Would… would that make it better?” he asked quietly, as if the logic of emotional math was something he could solve for X.

You dropped your arms, your whole body heavy. “Just tell me the truth,” you said, your voice raw now, almost breaking. “Your truth. Not what will make me feel better, not what you think you’re supposed to say. Just… tell me what’s real for you. Please.” You let the words hang in the air, weighted with months of longing and exhaustion. You were so tired. Tired of hoping, tired of pretending, tired of carrying it all alone.

Adrian’s gaze dropped, his shoulders curving inward, hands twisting in his hoodie. For a moment you thought he might clam up again, might try to joke it off or fumble his way into a non-answer. But then he looked back at you, and there was something vulnerable there, something real and almost frightened.

“I—I thought you knew,” he said, so quietly you barely heard him.

The words stopped you cold. Your pulse stuttered, everything in you grinding to a halt.

You frowned, unsure if you’d heard him right, hope and dread tangling in your chest. “What do you mean?” you asked, almost whispering.

Adrian’s voice was trembling now, all the bravado stripped away. “I thought you knew how I felt about you. I mean… you’re you. I just figured… you knew.”

He looked up at you, desperate, eyes wide and bright and unguarded—searching your face for understanding, forgiveness, for any sign you might throw him a rope and pull him out of this tangled mess you’d both spent so long creating. There was nothing hidden about him now, no shield of humor or awkward jokes, just Adrian: open and raw and utterly sincere.

For the first time, you saw it—all of it—laid bare between you. You remembered every moment he’d ever spent next to you in your bed, not touching, just there, his fingers just barely brushing your wrist in the darkness, sending static through your skin. The way his breathing would settle when you shared the same space, the hush that would fall between you, more comfortable than anything else in the world.

You thought about every time he’d come over, how he’d always sit a little too close—his leg pressed against yours on the couch, or his knee bumping yours under the table, as if he needed that contact to anchor himself. You’d written it off as just him being him—never questioned it, never let yourself hope.

And you remembered the way he’d always, always check on you. The way his eyes searched your face when you laughed, like he was cataloguing every smile, every flash of happiness, committing them to memory. How he would offer you the last slice of pizza, or bring you your favorite drink without asking, or just quietly exist in your orbit, making sure you were okay even when you tried to pretend you didn’t need it.

Every moment, every unspoken thing suddenly connected—his loyalty, his fierce protectiveness, the way he’d always chosen you, time after time, no matter what. Every moment he’d been yours, and you—so afraid of losing it all—hadn’t even let yourself hope that it could mean more.

He’d just assumed you knew. That you’d always known. That his love for you was obvious, like gravity or sunlight, something as natural as breathing.

You stared at him, heart thudding so loudly you could hear the blood in your ears, your mouth gone dry, the world closing in and then blooming wide open all at once. You were furious and grateful and stunned and awestruck and so, so full of love for this ridiculous, beautiful man in front of you.

Oh, this motherfucker, you thought, half in disbelief, half in awe. How could he have loved you this whole time and never said a word? How could you have missed it? Or worse, how could you have seen it every single day and still convinced yourself you were alone in this?

He held your gaze, as if waiting for you to finally see him the way he’d always seen you. His lips parted, his breath shaky, hope and fear fighting for dominance in his eyes. You realized he was as scared as you were, maybe even more. The thought nearly knocked you off your feet.

Your heart was beating so fast it hurt—every pulse ricocheting through your chest, your fingertips tingling, your throat tight and dry. All the feelings you’d tried to cram into neat little boxes were spilling out at once, rushing through you in waves so strong you didn’t know whether you’d start laughing or sobbing or maybe both at the same time. You wanted to shake him, kiss him, yell at him, hold him, anything to release the pressure that had built up in your chest for months—years.

But all you could do was stare, silent and stunned, the weight and brightness of the moment anchoring you in place. It was too much, too big—this sudden, blinding certainty between you, the truth you’d both been carrying so long that it had become invisible, part of the air you breathed.

“Oh,” you finally said, and the word felt small, almost silly after everything. “Okay.” You nodded at him, giving him back his own absurd, understated answer. It was all you could manage, but somehow it felt perfect—like you’d just tossed him a lifeline made of your own awkward honesty.

For a second, Adrian blinked, and then you caught it—the flicker of amusement at the corners of his mouth, the dawning realization as he registered what you’d just done, how you’d thrown his words right back at him. You watched as the tension in his shoulders eased, just a little, as if he recognized this language between you, all sarcasm and nervous humor and the kind of affection that didn’t need flowery declarations.

You swallowed, “For how long?”

But you could see he was already thinking, eyes flicking upward, brows furrowing with the effort of remembering. He snapped his fingers as it came to him. “When we laid those wet towels on your mom’s kitchen floor because of that heatwave?” he said, almost shy, almost awed, like the memory was something sacred.

Your breath caught, realization slamming into you. “Adrian, we were sixteen,” you said, your voice soft with disbelief.

He nodded, face turning red as he scratched the back of his neck. “Yeah. You were making that dumb lemonade with, like, half a pound of sugar, and we kept slipping on the tiles; and your Mom came home from work and she was mad because the floors were wet. I remember thinking… I dunno, that I’d never want to do anything that didn’t involve you ever again.” He gave you a sheepish smile, suddenly unable to meet your eyes. “Guess I never really stopped.”

It hit you then, the whole weight of it—how many years you’d spent orbiting each other, missing the obvious, protecting your own heart because you thought he could never want what you did. How many times you’d let him in so close and never dared to hope he’d been doing the same.

“Why didn’t you ever say anything?” you asked, breathless, a hundred memories racing through your mind. Every summer night, every inside joke, every shared secret and tired morning and goodbye hug that had lingered just a little too long.

He shrugged, that shy, lopsided grin on his face—the one he always wore when he was feeling equal parts brave and terrified, like he was standing on the edge of a rooftop and daring himself to jump. “Didn’t want to lose you. Didn’t want to ruin… this.” His voice was quiet, a little rough at the edges, and he made a vague gesture between you, as if the word for what you shared had never quite existed until now. “Turns out I’m kind of an idiot.”

You laughed, the sound bursting out of you, wild and bright and a little wobbly around the edges. You could feel the tears burning in your eyes, but for the first time, you didn’t care if he saw. You let them fall, a mix of laughter and relief and all the grief you’d been holding onto for so long. “Yeah,” you managed, voice shaking, “You’re an idiot.”

For a second, the two of you just stood there—caught in the messy, beautiful aftermath of everything finally said. It felt new and familiar all at once: the way he looked at you, the soft uncertainty in his eyes, the comfort of old friendship twined tight with the fragile hope of something more.

He stepped closer, the space between you shrinking until you could feel his breath, the warmth radiating off him in waves. He searched your face, like he was still worried he’d misread something, still scared you might vanish or laugh it off or take it all back.

“So,” he said softly, voice almost trembling, “are we okay?” There was so much weight in those three words—a lifetime of friendship, of fear, of late nights and inside jokes and all the things neither of you had ever quite managed to say. It was a question about everything, not just this moment. Are we safe? Are we still us? Are we really allowed to want this, to have this, after everything?

You looked at him—really looked—and all you saw was your best friend, standing in front of you with his heart in his hands, brave and stupid and so, so yours.

You nodded, unable to keep the smile off your face. “Yeah,” you whispered, voice thick with feeling. “We’re okay. More than okay.”

He let out a shaky breath, shoulders sagging in relief, and you saw a light in his eyes that hadn’t been there before—something bright and reckless, something like joy. You felt it spark in your own chest, warmth unfurling as you reached out, fingers trembling just a little, and curled your hand around his.

It was clumsy and awkward and perfect, the way you leaned into each other, the tension finally breaking as you both laughed—quiet and amazed—at how simple it suddenly felt to just be together. His thumb traced gentle circles on the back of your hand, like he couldn’t quite believe he was allowed to touch you like this.

“We’re really okay?” he asked again, voice smaller, more hopeful, like he needed you to confirm it just one more time before the universe could snatch it away.

You squeezed his hand, grounding both of you, and tugged him closer. “Yeah, Adrian. We’re really, really okay.” The words felt soft and certain in your mouth—like a promise you’d been waiting a lifetime to give.

He looked down at your hands, watching the way your fingers tangled together, almost like he couldn’t believe it was real. You could see the thoughts spinning behind his eyes—memories and anxieties, the silent math of “is this allowed?” and “do I get to have this?” flickering over his face.

Suddenly, a memory from years ago bubbled up: Adrian, seventeen and gangly, declaring, “Hand holding is for couples and we’re not a couple,” before dramatically flinging your hand away as you walked home from school. You bit your lip to keep from laughing, a wave of affection crashing through you so fierce it almost hurt.

Now, he was standing right here, knuckles white around your hand, holding on like he might never get another chance. You’d seen Adrian take a bullet, seen him taunt men twice his size, seen him grin through chaos and blood and impossible odds. But this? This soft moment, this tender question, this trembling at the edge of something new—this was the first time you’d ever seen him truly unsure. You could almost see him hesitate, weighing everything, wanting so badly but not quite daring to move.

You realized then that he was waiting for permission. He was waiting for you.

So you bit your lip, heart pounding, and blurted, “You’re gonna kiss me now, aren’t you?” It felt bold and fragile at once, the kind of thing you could only say because you were so desperately hoping for it, needing it, daring yourself to believe it could actually happen.

He blinked, startled by your words, and you saw a flush rise in his cheeks—a flush that looked so out of place on someone you’d watched stare down the barrel of a gun without blinking. For a split second, he laughed, his smile breaking open and revealing all the awkward, beautiful hope he’d been trying to hide.

“I mean—” He hesitated, searching your face, “—do you… do you want me to?”

You nodded, breathless, every nerve buzzing, “Yeah. I really do.”

The uncertainty in his eyes faded, replaced by a new kind of determination—shy but steady. He lifted his free hand to your cheek, touch gentle and almost reverent, like he was still afraid you’d disappear if he rushed it. For a moment, you just stood there, faces inches apart, breathing the same air, grinning like idiots at the strangeness and perfection of it all.

And then, finally, Adrian leaned in and kissed you—carefully at first, almost like he was afraid to get it wrong, like he was still waiting for you to change your mind. The first brush of his lips was tentative, almost shy, and you could feel his breath catch, feel his hand tremble a little where it cupped your cheek. For a second, you just melted into the feeling—soft and sweet and overdue—letting the reality of him, of this, wash through you.

Then he grew bolder, the kiss deepening as years of tension and hope and want spilled over. His hand slid to the back of your neck, steadying you, his thumb brushing your jaw with the kind of reverence that nearly undid you. You sank into him, letting the world fall away. The rest of the bridge, the distant hum of cars, even the awkward angle of your legs dangling over the edge—none of it mattered. It was just you and Adrian and the feeling of finally, finally letting go.

It was the kind of kiss that made your stomach twist in pure, electric excitement, that made your whole body buzz, heat sparking beneath your skin. You wanted to pull him impossibly closer, to erase every inch of space left between you, to make up for all the wasted time and silence. But not here—not on this sun-bleached bridge, with an enchilada still in Adrian’s hand and the river rolling lazy beneath your feet, not with the weight of everything you’d just confessed still hanging in the air.

So you broke apart, breathless and giddy, your lips tingling, your heart pounding so hard you half expected Adrian to comment on it. You pressed your forehead to his, smiling so wide your cheeks ached, the world suddenly impossibly bright and open.

He was still holding your hand, thumb rubbing slow, lazy circles over your knuckles like he couldn’t bear to let go. He laughed, voice trembling with relief and disbelief, his forehead resting against yours. “I think we’re definitely a couple now,” he whispered, half-joking, half in awe.

You couldn’t help but laugh—a wild, uncontrollable sound, bubbling out of you like champagne. “Yeah, Adrian,” you managed, squeezing his hand even tighter, “we are.”

He grinned at you, his whole face lighting up, and for a second you just stared at each other, equal parts stunned and delighted, both of you looking a little bit ridiculous and a lot like people who’d just found everything they didn’t dare hope for.

You felt a warmth bloom in your chest, spreading outward, soft and fierce all at once. For the first time in longer than you could remember, everything felt exactly right. Like you’d finally come home after a long, impossible journey.

Adrian glanced down at his hand, still holding half a cold enchilada, and started to laugh again, shaking his head. “I, uh, should probably put this down before I drop it on your shoes.”

You wiped a tear off your cheek, a mix of relief and giddy happiness, and nudged his shoulder. “You’d better not. I actually like these shoes.”

He set the enchilada aside with a mock solemnity, and then—just because he could—he kissed you again, this time a little messier, a little more confident, both of you grinning through it.

You leaned into him, soaking up the moment, letting the feeling of his arms around you, the solid warmth of his body, settle somewhere deep inside you. All the pain and fear and uncertainty faded away, replaced by the simple, overwhelming joy of being here—of finally, impossibly, loving and being loved in return.

The lobby of your apartment building was quiet, almost hushed in the heavy summer dusk. The fading sun filtered through the smudged glass doors, painting long streaks of gold and rose across the cracked tiles. Your footsteps echoed, soft and slightly out of sync, as you and Adrian stepped inside. You could hear the faint hum of the vending machine down the hall, the distant drone of a television behind someone’s door, the lazy creak of the elevator cables above you. Otherwise, it felt like the world had fallen away, leaving only the two of you suspended in this moment.

Adrian’s hand was wrapped tightly in yours, fingers woven together, his grip sure and unrelenting. He’d barely let go for a single second since you’d left the bridge—not when you crossed the intersection, not when you squeezed past an old woman with her grocery cart, not even when you had to pause to fish your keys out of your bag. It was like he was afraid that if he loosened his hold, you might slip away, or the truth of everything you’d said would somehow be undone. His palm was warm and a little clammy, his thumb absently tracing circles against your skin, grounding you with every touch.

You couldn’t stop replaying it all in your mind—the river, the sun on your face, the taste of his lips, the look in his eyes when he realized you loved him back. It was almost surreal, how quickly the world could tilt on its axis, how something you’d wanted so quietly for so long could suddenly be real. There was a nervous energy buzzing beneath your skin, like you might burst into laughter or tears at any second. Every part of you felt heightened, delicate, exposed, but you weren’t afraid anymore. Not of him. Not of this.

You glanced sideways at Adrian, watched the way his eyes flicked everywhere—at the mailboxes, the emergency exit sign, the rows of battered apartment doors—but always came back to you, like he was making sure you were still there, still real. There was something softer about him now, something unguarded. The usual bravado was gone, replaced by a gentle wonder you’d never seen before.

Your own emotions were a riot—joy, relief, and a wild, aching tenderness that made your heart hurt in the best possible way. You still felt the ghost of his kiss on your lips, the echo of your confession settling somewhere deep in your chest. It felt fragile, this new thing between you, like a secret you wanted to protect from the world, but also fierce, like nothing could ever break it.

You realized, as you stepped into the faded yellow glow of the hallway, that you weren’t just walking home with your best friend anymore. You were walking home with the person who knew you best, who saw you—all of you—and still wanted to hold on. You squeezed his hand a little tighter, and he squeezed back, smiling that crooked, lopsided grin that had always been your undoing.

He cleared his throat, glancing down at your joined hands. “I’m not letting go, just so you know,” he said, half-awkward, half-serious. “I feel like if I do, the universe might do something stupid. Like, I don’t know, I’ll probably get hit by a car Final Destination style.”

You laughed, a low, shaky sound that was mostly relief. “Right, naturally. But I think we’d both notice if the universe was trying to fuck us over.”

He grinned, his eyes shining brighter than you’d ever seen, and for a moment, he looked like he might float right up off the floor. “Yeah, but I’m not risking it.” He lifted your joined hands and pressed a kiss to your knuckles—soft, reverent, the kind of touch that sent warmth skittering up your arm and across your chest, making the world tilt just a little.

The elevator dinged, the metallic doors sliding open with a tired groan, and he tugged you inside, weaving through the small cluster of people already there. He didn’t let go of your hand, not even when you had to squish into the back corner, shoulder to shoulder. He left you to push the button for your floor, his thumb brushing circles over your wrist, anchoring you both in the cramped silence.

It was too quiet, the hum of the old elevator a low backdrop to the sound of your own breathing. You fixed your gaze directly ahead, trying not to think about the way your heart was pounding, or the fact that your skin was still tingling from his kiss. You could feel Adrian’s eyes on you, glancing over every few seconds, the air between you practically vibrating with unsaid words and stifled laughter.

You chanced a sideways look and caught him watching you, mischief lighting up his face. He mouthed the words, I love you, exaggerating the shape of each syllable, eyes soft and earnest. You bit your lip, fighting the helpless smile that threatened to take over, looking away before you started laughing in front of the entire elevator.

The doors slid open again, the crowd thinning as the old man in his blue cardigan shuffled out. It left only you, Adrian, and a trio of strangers who all seemed oblivious to the tension between you. Adrian took the opportunity to squeeze your hand again, catching your gaze. This time, he lifted his free hand and shaped his fingers into half a heart, raising his eyebrows in question, a teasing little smirk tugging at his lips.

You pressed your mouth tight, determined to keep it together, but then a snort slipped out—awkward, and you could almost feel the red flush up your cheeks you looked away. Adrian’s grin widened, lighting up his entire face, his joy so unguarded that you felt something settle in your chest, softer and safer than you’d ever dared to wish for. It was so clear in that moment: your happiness was his favorite thing in the universe.

The elevator doors slid open with a soft ding. You barely waited for the gap to widen before tugging Adrian out by the hand, your voice low and fond as you murmured, “Get out of the elevator, Chase.”

He laughed, stumbling just a little in his eagerness to keep up, but never letting go of your hand. His fingers were still tightly laced with yours—warm and certain, as if he was afraid that releasing you now might break the fragile magic of this brand-new thing between you. The laugh lingered in the corridor, echoing briefly before being swallowed up by the hush of your apartment hallway.

The hallway itself was almost empty, the old light fixtures buzzing quietly above and painting the worn carpet with gold and shadow. The air was cool and slightly musty, tinged with the familiar scents of home—your neighbor’s stale perfume, the faint bleach from the janitor’s cart, and above all that, the very specific scent that was Adrian. You could smell his cologne—a little sharp, a little sweet—the same one he’s worn since high school. Underneath it, the clean, crisp scent of his laundry detergent, and the warmth of his skin. Just being this close made your senses sharpen; made everything feel a little more vivid.

As you made your way down the corridor, you felt him watching you out of the corner of his eye. The heat of his gaze was almost tangible. Your heart fluttered with every step, your nerves dancing between your ribs and your stomach, wild and light and breathless.

He nudged your shoulder with his, his arm pressing into yours, casual but deliberate. You could feel his warmth through your sleeves, the easy confidence in his step now that the hard part was over—like a man finally allowed to walk in the sun after years in the shade. Every time he bumped you, it was a little reminder: I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.

You looked at him, really looked, and saw it all. The boy you’d grown up with—The one who sat with you in the school cafeteria as you both ignored the rest of the school—and the man he’d become. Stronger, more certain, but still Adrian in all the ways that mattered.

He caught your gaze, his lopsided smile a little shy around the edges. He ducked his head, voice low and honest. “You know,” he said, “I’ve always liked coming here. Always felt like home, even before… all this.”

The admission knocked the breath out of you. You squeezed his hand, feeling the pulse of your heartbeat racing in your palm, and this time you didn’t second-guess yourself. “Its because you keep stealing my side of the bed,” You smirked.

You reached your door, the familiar brass numbers catching the last blush of hallway light, painting them gold against chipped paint and memories. You hesitated, your keys cool and heavy in your palm. Everything felt heightened—each breath, each heartbeat, the way your pulse fluttered wildly in your wrist where his thumb had rested moments ago. You stood in that sliver of space between what your life had always been and whatever it might become, hope thrumming through you so loud you thought Adrian must be able to hear it.

You could feel him next to you, even without looking. He hovered by your side, and when you finally turned, you saw him leaning his shoulder against the doorframe. For once, his energy was still—not restless, not scattered, just present. His arms hung loose at his sides, but his attention was fixed on you. There was no pressure in his gaze, just a quiet, open patience, as if he’d finally learned how to wait. He was offering you the choice, the power to decide how tonight would go, if you needed to breathe, to think, to keep your world from spinning out too fast.

It struck you, then, how well he knew you. That he would let you set the pace, even now. That after everything, he was still waiting—not for the next move, not for some big, dramatic gesture, but for you. For what you wanted.

You looked at him, really looked, and in that dim light, with your world trembling between old and new, you realized how much you loved him. You loved him with a kind of stubborn, overwhelming certainty that filled every inch of you, every scar, every smile, every awkward pause and old inside joke. All you wanted was to keep him, just like this—close, unguarded, impossibly real.

A soft smile tugged at your mouth as you held his gaze. “So,” you began, voice gentle but sure, “I think I still have that stupid space movie you wanted to watch teed up on the TV. If you wanted to… you know, stay. Watch bad movies with even worse subtitles, and eat takeaway from that shop with the health violations?” Your lips curled into a smirk, teasing. “I know you still have that punch card for free spring rolls. You could finally use it for something other than a coaster.”

He huffed out a laugh, relief and joy chasing the last shadows from his face. He looked at you like you were the best thing he’d ever seen, and you realized, with a shiver of delight, that he was still a little in awe of this—of you, of both of you, together.

He straightened from the doorframe and reached for your hand again, lacing his fingers with yours, thumb tracing slow, familiar circles. “Yeah,” he said, voice soft and certain, “That sounds good.”

You grinned, the last of your nerves unspooling as you turned the key and nudged open the door. The hinges groaned, familiar and welcoming, and the scent of your apartment—soft laundry, a trace of spice from last night’s dinner, the faint must of old books—wrapped around you both. Adrian kicked off his battered sneakers by the door and padded in on socked feet, following you with the same unthinking certainty he always had, but tonight it felt different. Lighter. Like you were both stepping into something you’d been building for years, without ever realizing it.

The living room was its usual comfortable chaos: the old couch sagging in the middle, a basket of laundry waiting to be folded, stacks of half-read books and dog-eared magazines on every flat surface. The kitchen light was still on, illuminating a small pile of mail, two mismatched mugs, and—unmistakably—your favorite set of knives spread out on the table from last night’s very ill-advised knife sharpening.

You shot Adrian a look as he drifted toward the kitchen, eyes lingering on the knives with blatant interest. “Do not touch those knives on the table, Chase,” you warned, dropping your bag on the armchair. “You still have my other one, remember?”

He glanced back at you, feigning innocence, a gleam of mischief in his eyes. “I’ll give them back,” he promised, the words only half-serious as he edged a little closer to the table.

“You said that last time,” you reminded him, already reaching for the TV remote. You had visions of him absconding with your knives the same way he had with your hoodies and half your Tupperware.

“I’m still borrowing them,” he shot back, grinning as he plopped down onto the couch beside you. He nudged your knee with his, settling in like he’d been doing it for years—because he had. Only now, everything felt new, electrified, like the air itself was buzzing with what you’d both finally admitted.

You shook your head, unable to keep the fondness out of your voice. “Borrowing, he says. You’re such a liar.”

Adrian just grinned at you, utterly unbothered, sprawling across the couch like it was his throne. He snagged your favorite cushion and hugged it to his chest, pulling out his phone with the same practiced ease he used for everything that felt like home. He started scrolling through his usual takeaway app, squinting at the screen, his brow furrowed in exaggerated concentration.

You watched him for a moment, letting the rest of the world fade out. Your heart was thumping wildly, but not in the anxious, tangled way it had before. This was different—this was hope and happiness, nerves and excitement all twined together in your chest, humming through your veins. You felt almost giddy, the realization washing over you in gentle, rolling waves: This is really happening. This is real.

Every detail felt impossibly precious: the soft huff of his laughter as he found a ridiculous restaurant name to show you, the way he glanced at you out of the corner of his eye just to see if you were smiling, the casual confidence with which he moved around your space. It was all so familiar, but the meaning had shifted—every look, every touch, every inside joke now sparking with a brand new energy.

You realized, with a little shock, that the fear was gone. That old anxiety—that ache that things might change, that you might lose him if you said too much—had vanished, replaced by something brighter and steadier. You were still nervous, yes, but it was the delicious, breathless kind of nerves that came with possibility. With hope.

You smiled to yourself, warmth spreading from your cheeks down to your toes. You felt cherished. Chosen. Like you were standing at the edge of something miraculous and the universe was giving you permission to leap.

Adrian looked up and caught your gaze, eyebrows raising. “What?” he asked, pretending to be suspicious. “You’re looking at me like I’m about to eat the last dumpling without sharing.”

You rolled your eyes, unable to help the laughter bubbling out of you. “You probably will.”

He grinned, “Not tonight.” There was a softness in his eyes, a promise in his voice. For the first time, you let yourself believe it—let yourself believe that you could have this, and that he wanted it just as much as you did.

You let out a slow breath, the last of your fear evaporating. All that was left was joy—simple, overwhelming, and new.

This was your life now. This was home.

And you couldn’t wait for all the tomorrows to come.