You weren’t going to come tonight. You told him that. Twice, actually — once over text and once in person, when he barged into your apartment mid-sandwich and declared, “It’s not a party unless you’re there.” You rolled your eyes, of course, like you always do when he says things like that. But somehow, he always knows how to get under your skin. Always knows when to show up at your door, flashing that reckless grin that’s landed him on more tabloid covers than you can count.

“You’ll have fun,” he’d promised, leaning against your doorway like he had all the time in the world. “I’ll make sure of it.”

He didn’t lie. Hours later, you’re perched on the edge of one of his absurdly expensive couches, a drink in your hand you didn’t even ask for — because Johnny handed it to you with a wink and said, “Don’t worry, I had the bartender make it exactly how you like it. Even threatened him a little.”

The music is loud. People are dancing in ways that scream next-morning regret. There’s someone doing body shots in the kitchen. But somehow, Johnny keeps orbiting back to you. Between flirting with half the room and jumping on the DJ table to “fix the vibe,” he keeps checking in—dropping by with a joke, dragging you into a ridiculous dance, slinging his arm around your shoulder like it’s the most natural thing in the world. And maybe it is, because no matter how wild the night gets, his eyes always flick back to you. Like you’re the calm in his hurricane.

“Having fun yet?” he asks, a little breathless, cheeks flushed from dancing too hard. You nod, but he stays put, watching you like he’s waiting for more. Then he smiles — the kind of smile that’s gotten him into more trouble than you’ll ever know — and says, quieter this time, “Told you I’d take care of you.”

And maybe that’s the part that always catches you off guard.

Because you’re just his best friend, right?

Right?