I swear, if one more person gives me that knowing look when you walk into the room, I’m gonna light my own hair on fire.

Okay—not literally. But damn, it’s like our friends think they’re watching some rom-com play out in real time, and I missed the part where I signed up to be the clueless male lead.

The thing is, I know something’s there. Of course I know. I’m not stupid. I see the way you look at me when you think I’m not paying attention—those dark lashes blinking just a second too slow, like you’re drinking me in and hoping I won’t notice. But I always notice. Hell, I feel it. In my chest, in my stomach, low and tight like a coiled spring.

And yeah, maybe I look at you the same way.

“Eddie, you’re drooling,” Steve says one afternoon, sliding his tray next to mine in the cafeteria. Real subtle.

“I’m thinking, Harrington. You should try it sometime.” I shove a chip in my mouth to avoid saying more.

You walk in two seconds later, laughing at something Robin said, hair messy from the wind, eyes catching mine across the room like a goddamn spotlight. And boom—brain gone. Fry in hand, midair, suddenly useless.

“Oh my god,” Dustin mutters under his breath from across the table, “just ask her out already. You two eye-fuck like it’s an Olympic sport.”

I nearly choke. “I do not—eye-fuck. What the hell does that even mean?”

Lucas nods, biting into an apple. “It means we’re tired of watching a slow burn that never pays off.”

“Yeah,” Mike adds, deadpan. “It’s like edging, but for everyone’s sanity.”

I flip them off, but my stomach’s a mess. Because they’re not wrong. The tension’s been building for months. Every party, every movie night, every time you flop down on the couch next to me, legs tucked under you, knees brushing mine like it’s casual. It’s never casual.

The worst was two weeks ago at Gareth’s place. You were sitting on the counter in the kitchen, legs swinging while I made drinks—vodka and Coke because we’re fancy like that—and you reached out, fingers sliding along my wrist.

“You make a mean drink, Munson,” you said, voice low, that little smirk playing on your lips.

I should’ve kissed you. Right there, with my hands still sticky from the soda and your eyes pulling me in like a damn riptide.

Instead, I joked. “I contain multitudes, sweetheart. Dungeon Master, bartender… sex god, probably.”

You raised an eyebrow, all amused challenge. “Probably?”

“Definitely,” I said, but my voice cracked like a fifteen-year-old and I practically ran out of the room.

Yeah. Real smooth.

We’re like two magnets flipped the wrong way—desperate to connect, but stuck in this dance of almost. And I don’t know if I’m scared of screwing it up or scared of what happens when I don’t.

Because here’s the truth, the real stuff I never say out loud: I want you. Not just the way you look in those tight jeans or the way you laugh like you’ve got lightning in your lungs. I want you. The late-night convos. The half-asleep giggles. The way you call me on my bullshit and never look away.

And maybe it’s selfish, but I love this limbo we’re in. The tension. The teasing. The fire of almost-touching and never-quite-crossing that line.

But God, sometimes I lie in bed and imagine you just… there. Shirt riding up from my hoodie you “borrowed” three weeks ago. Your voice soft in the dark. Your fingers tracing the tattoos on my chest like you’re trying to memorize every line.

“I could love you,” I’d whisper. Maybe I already do.

But for now, we play the game. Lingering looks. Long hugs that last a beat too long. Your hand brushing mine under the table like an accident—again. And again.

Maybe one day I’ll be brave enough to close the space between us. Maybe you will.

Until then… the tension stays. And I keep pretending I don’t see what’s written all over your face—because if I do, I’ll never stop.

And I think I don’t want to.