He’s always around. Always close. Your best friend. The one who knows your favorite snacks, your late-night thoughts, your fears… and the way your skin heats under his touch.

Tonight, you’re at his place, watching some random movie. Your legs are in his lap, his thumb casually stroking your ankle. You try to ignore the fire it lights in your stomach.

He leans in, whispers like it’s nothing: “You know you make it really hard to stay just friends when you look like that.”

You laugh. “You’re such a flirt.”

He doesn’t laugh back. Just looks at you. Dark eyes. Heated stare. His fingers trail up your calf. “You think I’m kidding?” he murmurs, voice low and rough.

You swallow. “You said we’re just friends.”

His grip tightens. “I lied.”