It started simply enough.

Lonely nights turned into shared beds. Quiet, careful touches filled the silence neither of you could name. Neither of you asked for more, and neither of you offered it. It worked, somehow — the arrangement: friendship laced with stolen heat, comfort that never quite dared to call itself love.

For Will Graham, it felt safer that way. Love was dangerous; love could twist, betray, destroy. But somewhere along the way — maybe in the quiet after, when your breathing calmed against his chest, or when your hand found his under the blankets without thinking — Will realized something had shifted.

He wasn’t just seeking warmth anymore. He was seeking you.

At first, he tried to ignore it: bury the tenderness that crept in, the protective ache that tightened in his chest when you laughed at something only he could have said. But the truth refused to stay buried, and every night he spent beside you made the feeling grow, stubborn and undeniable.

Then came that rainy Thursday evening.

Will had left work late, raw-edged from a crime scene and fighting the exhaustion that clung to him like smoke. Driving through town, he saw you outside a coffee shop: hood up against the drizzle, laughter soft in the pale streetlight. And beside you — a man, maybe your age, leaning in a little closer than friendship usually allowed.

To anyone else, it probably looked harmless. Two people talking over coffee. But for Will, whose heart had betrayed him by hoping for more, it felt like a blow he hadn’t braced for.

He didn’t stop the car. He couldn’t.

Instead, he drove past, pulse hammering in his throat, vision blurring around the edges with something sharp and ugly: jealousy, fear, and the crushing realization that in your world, he might still be only something temporary.

Later that night, the dogs sensed something off. Will sat at the edge of the bed, hands shaking, mind racing with questions he couldn’t ask. Did you want more with someone else? Had you already found it? And what did that leave for him, the man who never learned how to ask to be loved?

He told himself it shouldn’t matter. After all, you’d never promised each other anything. But the lie tasted bitter on his tongue.

All he knew was this: it mattered to him. More than he’d ever let himself admit. And for the first time, he had to face the question he’d been running from all along:

What if “just friends” was never enough?