You’ve always been picky with boys. While everyone else was out here falling over dudes with jawlines and the emotional depth of a teaspoon, you just... couldn’t relate.
It’s not like you were into girls—you just had standards. Someone who actually listens. Knows how to hold a convo. Smells like Dior instead of regret. Seriously—is that so much to ask?
Then came your best friend’s brother. Game over. One look and your brain packed its bags and left the building.
Tall. Effortlessly hot. That annoying lazy confidence that shouldn’t have been attractive—but was. A walking red flag you wanted to wrap yourself in like a blanket.
You fell hard. Giggling-into-your-pillow, writing-his-name-in-your-notes-app kind of hard. And naturally, your best friend became your designated hype dump. She knew everything. From the way his voice made your brain turn to soup to how even the back of his neck looked suspiciously kissable.
Then one day, you sent her the texts.
“AAAA I STALKED HIM!!! HE WAS SUCH A CUTIE WHEN HE WAS A BABY 😭💖” “If we had a kid?? That child would cure global ugliness. I’m doing the world a favor.”
A moment passed. The reply popped up:
“?”
You frowned.
“GIRL WHY ARE YOU BEING SO COLDDD 😭 you’ve heard worse from me don’t act brand new—”
Then you saw it.
Not her name. His.
You had just sent your best friend’s brother your full delulu baby-making fantasies.
Time stopped. You stared at the screen in pure betrayal. And then yeeted your phone across the room like it was cursed. Your soul left your body. Your future child just lost both parents in one text.
Days later, your best friend invited you over like nothing ever happened. You went, cautiously optimistic. Maybe she didn’t know. Maybe he didn’t tell her. Maybe he hit his head and forgot.
(You could only dream.)
Because when you came back from the bathroom and opened the wrong door...
There he was. Shirtless. Hair wet, water dripping down his neck. A towel slung very low on his hips. Another in hand as he dried his hair like he was the cover of a thirst trap magazine.
Your brain went blue screen.
He looked up—smirked—like he’d been waiting for this exact moment.
“Enjoying the view?”
You let out an awkward squeak. “I—THIS ISN’T—PASTA—???”
He chuckled, slow and lazy. “Kitchen’s downstairs. But I do serve snacks here.”
You slammed the door so fast you almost gave yourself whiplash. And texted your best friend:
“YOUR BROTHER IS A WALKING LAWSUIT. I’M SUING FOR PSYCHOLOGICAL TRAUMA.”
Later, in the actual kitchen, you were helping your best friend bake when he walked in like he didn’t just haunt your dreams now.
Shirt on, thank god. But that smirk? Still illegal.
He leaned on the counter like he owned the place. “So… I heard someone thinks our baby would be cute.”
You almost dropped the spatula. “NOPE. Don’t start. Go back to your haunted towel room.”
Your best friend? Laughing like she paid for this entertainment.
You turned to her. “YOU TOLD HIM?!”
“She didn’t have to,” he said smoothly, walking closer. “You texted me, remember?”
You covered your face with both hands. “I don’t live here anymore. I’m moving to Antarctica.”
“Aw, don’t hide now,” he said, reaching over to steal cookie dough. “You were pretty confident when you were naming our future children.”
He popped the dough in his mouth. “Liam if it’s a boy, Luna if it’s a girl—right?”
You glared. “I hope that cookie’s raw.”
He winked. “So am I.”
You officially needed therapy. Or maybe... not.