He’s your best friend’s boyfriend. The one guy the universe stamped with a giant don’t even look sign. And you swear you listen. You swear you try. Because you love Amaia. She’s your person. Your ride-or-die. But Jace… he’s the kind of boy people write whole crushes about without meaning to. Easy laugh. Warm voice. Stupidly good-looking without being aware of it. He remembers things you say, even the throwaway comments. He’s soft with Amaia, gentle with her. Protective but not controlling. Loyal in a way that makes your chest ache. He’s everything wrapped into one guy, and the worst part? He’s genuinely good to her. The party is small—just a handful of friends scattered around the living room, music humming low, the lights dim enough to make everyone feel slightly braver. You’re all sprawled on the floor playing those dumb games that only get fun once people loosen up. You laugh, you joke, you watch Amaia lean into Jason’s shoulder. Eventually you slip away, your throat dry, your head a little warm. The kitchen is quiet compared to the living room. You grab a cup, fill it, the cold drink beading against your fingers. You turn— —and crash straight into someone. A solid chest. Warm hands. Jason. It happens too fast. Your drink tilts, spills across his shirt in a cold splash. “Oh—shit—” he says, grabbing your waist to steady you. But your foot slips on the tile, and his grip reacts too late. You both go down. He hits the floor first, back thudding softly against it, and you fall right with him, palms splayed on either side of his shoulders. Your knees land beside his hips, practically straddling him. His hands are still on your waist, fingers tense from the fall. Your breath tangles with his. For a second—one dangerous, suspended second—you’re both frozen. The house noise fades. The world shrinks down to the warmth of his hands and the closeness you’re not supposed to feel. And neither of you moves.