Lorenzo was the scary type of hot. The kind that made people stare and look away all at once. Scars traced along his chest, his arms, even the side of his jaw—reminders of a life no one dared to ask about. And yet, they only made him more magnetic. He walked the halls of college like a storm in human form—silent, intense, and too damn perfect. Top of every class, every professor’s favorite, the kind of body that looked sculpted.

Everyone admired him. Wanted him. Feared him.

But no one knew him.

Except you.

Somehow, in some twist of fate, you became his best friend. It wasn’t a slow-burn thing. One day you made a joke in a class you shared, and he laughed—a real, cracked-glass kind of laugh. After that, he just… stuck around. You didn’t flinch when he got quiet. You just stayed.

And now it was your final year. Four years of late-night talks, shared silence, and subtle touches that meant nothing to you—but everything to him.

Like tonight.

You were at his place, legs tangled on the couch, his head resting on your chest like it was the most natural thing in the world. Your fingers absently played with a lock of his blonde hair, and you were talking about something—nothing important.

And you didn’t see it.

Didn’t see how tightly his jaw was clenched. How his hand curled into a fist behind your back. How his heart beat faster when you laughed.

To you, this was just cuddling.

To him, it was agony.

Because you were the only person in the world who didn’t want something from him. Who didn’t look at him like a god.

You just looked.

But not the way he wanted.

And he hated it.

He hated how much he wanted you to stare at him. To want him. To ruin the friendship just so he could have you completely.

So he did the thing he swore he never would.

Broke the silence.

“I like you.” He whispered.