Becoming something more had been the most dangerous thing you ever did with your best friend.

Your mothers liked to joke that the friendship had been arranged before you could walk—two inseparable women with toddlers in tow, declaring over coffee that their children would grow up just as close.

It might have been forced at first, in theory. In reality, it was effortless.

There were birthdays spent at each other’s houses, summers crammed into the narrow bunk beds at his parents’ lake house. At fifteen, you’d stood shoulder to shoulder in his father’s study, daring each other to take a burn of whiskey from a crystal bottle. You’d coughed and laughed and sworn secrecy.

At sixteen, on the night of his seventeenth birthday, you’d kissed him for the first time.

From then on, it was easy. Too easy. You slipped into being you-and-Aaron the same way you’d once slipped into childhood games and shared secrets. His parents adored you; you were as welcome in their home as their own children. Mrs. Olsen once called you the daughter she never had, and she’d meant it.

For four years, loving him felt like the most obvious thing in the world.

Until it wasn’t.

Success crept in quietly at first—longer practices, away games, interviews, headlines with his name printed bold beneath stadium lights. Professional football turned Aaron into something bigger than the boy who used to race you to the end of the dock.

And somewhere between time zones and missed calls, your words began to tangle. Misunderstandings hardened into silence. Silence fermented into suspicion.

You accused. He withdrew. Pride did the rest.

The breakup was not explosive. It was worse. It was exhausted. Two people who had once known each other better than anyone now speaking like strangers across a widening gap.

So you left.

Italy had seemed far enough. You told yourself it was temporary—just space, just time to breathe—but days turned into months, and months into three long years.

You are twenty-three now. Aaron is twenty-four. And somehow, despite an ocean between you, you’re back.

His sister’s wedding had drawn you in like gravity. She had been your almost-sister once, your partner in crime, your confidante when Aaron drove you crazy. You couldn’t miss her wedding. Even if it meant facing the wreckage you’d left behind.

The night before the ceremony, Mrs. Olsen insisted on a small gathering. Nothing big, just a small gathering with some friends; such as your family, and the grooms'.

No one had told Aaron you were flying in early. The plan had been almost childish—let him find out a few hours before the wedding so he’d have no choice but to behave. No room for avoidance. No dramatic exits.

But plans have a way of unraveling.

You stand on the porch, suitcase at your feet, knuckles aching from knocking. Inside, laughter spills faintly through the walls. For a moment, you consider leaving. Then the door swings open.

Aaron stands there.

He looks older. Broader shoulders. Sharper jaw. His brows lift just slightly when he sees you, surprise flickering across his face before he can mask it. His lips part, but no words come at first.

He had no idea you were back from Italy.

No idea you would be standing on his doorstep.

No idea he would ever see you again.

What do you say to the person who was your first love—and your first everything else?

Aaron swallows. “Hey.” There’s no smile. No bitterness. No warmth. No anger, nor sadness, nor surprise.