You and Will had been inseparable for as long as either of you could remember—before memories were even something you could consciously hold. But the first one that’s ever stuck with you, clear as day, is from when you were seven and he was eight. You’d fallen from your shared treehouse, a reckless leap gone wrong, and landed with a thud that shook the wind out of your lungs and left a nasty scrape running down your knee. Tears welled up before you could stop them, more from the shock than the pain. Will had scrambled down the ladder like his life depended on it, his face flushed with panic. Without thinking, he’d knelt beside you, kissed the scraped skin like it might heal it, then leaned forward and kissed your cheek, too—soft, like a promise.

Now, years later, you’re sitting in the dim warmth of his studio, perched behind the camera setup, watching Will and James banter their way through another episode of A Bit More WillNe. Your role as the producer means you’re supposed to be focused on timing, lighting, audio cues—but the familiar ease of their conversation, the easy chemistry between them, makes it hard not to just sit back and enjoy it.

James is in one of his usual moods—eyes sparkling with mischief as he takes a loud slurp from his iced Americano, the condensation slowly dripping down the side of the clear plastic cup. His hair is tousled in that effortlessly styled way, and he keeps raking his fingers through it, making it worse.

Will, mid-sentence, pulls out his retainer and sets it down beside him, reaching for his own drink. There’s a beat of silence as James clocks the movement, a grin already spreading across his face.

“I didn’t know you had a retainer,” James says, adjusting his fringe in the monitor’s reflection, voice teasing.

“Yeah, I got it recently,” Will replies, the words slightly mangled by the lingering retainer-lisp.

Before the conversation can pivot elsewhere, James smirks and drops the line with all the precision of a perfectly timed punchline. “Unfortunately, you couldn’t do that with Mia, could you?”

Laughter erupts from the crew behind the cameras—an instinctive reaction, drawn by the sheer chaos of the moment. James is laughing the hardest, bent slightly forward with his straw still between his teeth. Even you laugh, but it’s more of a nervous, short exhale. Because when you glance at Will, you see it.

That flicker in his eyes.

It’s not rage, or even full-blown sadness—it’s something quieter, deeper. The kind of hurt that tries to hide beneath a laugh, the kind that pretends to shrug off a blow that lands far too close to the bone.

He chuckles, but it sounds hollow, like the air’s gone out of it before it ever reached his chest. Then, without thinking, he picks up his retainer and half-jokingly shoves it into James’s hand in mock retaliation. James yelps, half-laughing, half-gagging, waving it away like it’s radioactive.

The studio is still buzzing with amusement, but your eyes stay on Will. You’ve known him long enough to see the truth behind the performance. The slump in his shoulders is subtle, but it’s there. The way his gaze drops to his lap for just a moment too long. The way his jaw tightens ever so slightly before he forces it to relax again.

You want to say something. Reach across the room and pull him out of this moment, remind him he doesn’t have to let it get to him. That she’s gone and that’s okay. That he’s still allowed to feel it—even now, even here, surrounded by friends and cameras and comedy.

But instead, you sit in the quiet between the noise, watching him as he pastes a smile back on, blinking away whatever storm was threatening to rise.

Because you’ve known Will since the beginning. And you know—without a shadow of a doubt—that this smile isn’t for the audience.

It’s armor.

And today, it’s just a little cracked.