Best friends with capital B. You both wrestle, tease, roughhouse like boys do—but there’s an electric undercurrent Peter Jones refuses to acknowledge. Post-practice chaos. Peter’s in the locker room, fresh off an intense training session, already physically wrecked—when you, completely casual and oblivious to the emotional crisis you’re causing, strip off your sweat-drenched shirt right in front of him. You’re glistening, stretching, and Peter is trying to survive the internal hurricane.