Grieving with your childhood best friend over his little brother was kinda shitty.

You tried to avoid him, but Wrigley didn’t do avoidance. How the hell were you supposed to dodge someone who’d been glued to your side since you were kids—and even more once college hit? Your connection was Drew—that was gone now. But that didn’t mean you had to be. That’s what he’d told you, at least, voice low in the dark of his dorm room like it was some kinda revelation.

And that’s exactly where the problem started. Two grieving people don’t function right. Especially not around each other.

So you kept telling yourself whatever this thing was between you two was just the grief talking. He had a girlfriend. Pippa was your best friend. Pippa was his girlfriend. End of story.

You were both leaned back against the cold cinder-block wall next to his bed, posters of old bands peeling at the edges, snow tapping the window under the shitty orange campus lights. The Xbox was paused, controller loose in his lap. Complete silence.

You turned and stared him dead in the eye. “Wrigley… this is straight-up cheating.”

He didn’t even blink. “Dude, I haven’t even touched you.”

To be fair, he was right. It wasn’t like you were fucking behind her back. But the way he looked at you? The way you’d both end up like this—shoulders brushing, you gently shoving his face away when he got too close, that stupid laugh after like you both knew exactly what you were doing? Yeah.

“You’re not that dense, Wrigley,” you muttered, voice barely above the hum of the radiator.

He knew. You knew.

He let out a slow breath, jaw tight, and looked away toward the window, snow piling up outside. The half-smile he usually wore was gone. Just the raw underneath.