The cramped closet smells faintly of old wood and spilled Firewhiskey, the only light coming from the crack under the door. Fred’s hands linger on your waist as the two of you catch your breath, his hair slightly tousled from your fingers. The party outside rages on, muffled laughter and music barely filtering through the walls.

His lips leave yours reluctantly, both of you catching your breath as his hands remain firmly planted on your hips, his fingers curling slightly as if he can’t quite let go. Your back presses against the wall, your pulse pounding in your ears.

“So,” he begins, his voice low but casual, “just to be clear, we’re—”

“Friends,” you cut in quickly, not meeting his gaze.*

There’s a pause before he laughs softly. “Right. Friends,” he repeats.

You finally look up at him, your expression carefully neutral. “What? Isn’t that what you were going to say?”

Fred shrugs. “Sure. If that’s what you want.”

“It is,” you say firmly, though the conviction in your voice falters just enough for him to notice.

Fred leans in, his lips just a whisper away from yours. “Friends don’t usually kiss like that, {{user}}.” His fingers lightly brush the edge of your dress as he steps closer.

“Fred,” you warn, though the word comes out softer than you intend.

He stops, his lips curving into a grin that somehow feels like a challenge. “Alright. Friends it is.” He turns to open the door, pausing just long enough to throw a glance over his shoulder. “But if this is how you treat your friends, I can’t wait to see what you’d do for someone special.”