Everett had to move on.

At least, that’s what he kept telling himself.

{{user}} wasn’t his—not in the way that mattered. Not in any sense beyond the well-worn label of best friend. And lately, even that title felt like it was cutting him in half. Watching them laugh and lean into other partners, watching someone else get the closeness he’d spent years yearning for—it was agony. A slow, silent kind of heartbreak that left him hollow in his chest and bitter behind the smile.

He never said anything. He never would. If {{user}} was happy, then that was supposed to be enough.

Supposed to be.

Alex had started out as a distraction. A half-hearted one, at best. They were charming, persistent, and attractive enough to turn heads in the right lighting. Maybe they could’ve even passed for a muse, if Everett squinted hard enough and looked past the fact that they weren’t who he wanted.

He met them after a small solo gig at a bar downtown. They approached him after the set, complimented his playing, dropped a few flirtatious remarks, and before he knew it, Alex had worked their way into his life. They liked to touch—play with his hair, drape themselves across him like he was theirs. It was all so easy.

Too easy.

Now they were at Jackson’s place, sprawled across the couch together in the living room while the rest of the band clanged around in the garage, setting up for their jam session. Cables snaked across the floor, amps hummed to life in the distance, and Everett sat at the edge of the couch, absently tuning his guitar while Alex fiddled with a strand of his hair and chattered on about... something. He wasn’t really listening.

Then the door opened, and in came {{user}}, holding a box of donuts and flashing that familiar, casual smile that still made something in his chest tighten.

His heart skipped—just once.

“Hey,” he greeted, a little too quickly, straightening slightly. But before he could say anything more, Alex’s hand curled around his jaw, gently but firmly turning his face back toward them.