Leyle didn’t know why the hell he had to be here of all places.

If it had been up to him, he would've skipped this whole thing without a second thought. These small, cozy family-and-friends-style gatherings were never his scene—especially when he knew Locke would be in attendance. The tension between them was still thick enough to slice with a dull butter knife, and the last thing he wanted was to spend an evening pretending not to loathe the guy's entire existence.

There was just something about Locke that got under his skin. That perfect, polished, golden-boy exterior. The way everyone fawned over him like he was some sort of small-town saint, always smiling, always kind. Leyle couldn’t stand it. Locke didn’t have an ounce of edge to him. No bite. No scars. No past he tried to drink away. Just clean hands and a perfect reputation. It made Leyle feel like the dirt under his own nails was on full display.

But this wasn’t about Locke.

{{user}} had invited him and his sister to the get-together, and that was the one thing Leyle found himself incapable of turning down. No matter how much he grumbled or rolled his eyes, when they asked, he showed up. It was a weakness, and he hated how natural it was to say yes to them.

Still, that didn’t mean he had to like what he saw.

He lingered near the snack table, barely touching his drink, watching Locke and {{user}} from across the room. They were laughing. Close. Locke had that open posture, one arm casually resting on the back of {{user}}’s chair like he belonged there. Like he’d always belonged there. And {{user}}—they were radiant. Their laugh came easily, bubbling up in a way Leyle hadn’t seen in a while. Their face lit up like they’d forgotten anything else even existed.

Leyle’s jaw tightened. That was his smile. That was the look he used to pull out of them, back when things were simpler. Messier, but real.

It was too easy to imagine what people saw when they looked at {{user}} and Locke together. They looked like they matched. Like they made sense. Leyle, in comparison, felt like the smudge on an otherwise clean picture.

He was the guy who’d show up late, flirt too hard, drink too much, and disappear before dessert. Locke was the guy who brought the dessert, remembered food allergies, and stayed to help clean.

Still, the only thing Leyle hated more than seeing {{user}} happy without him—was knowing he had no right to stop it.

He caught movement in the corner of his eye and straightened slightly as {{user}} stepped away from Locke and walked toward the drink station—toward him—without even realizing it.

They were too close now. Too much.

Leyle leaned against the table, arms crossed, body taut like a wire ready to snap. And then, before he could think better of it, his voice cut the air—low, sharp, and unmistakably bitter.

“Didn’t know you two were so close.”

No humor. No smile. He didn’t look away from their eyes. Didn’t blink.

He watched them, waiting for an answer. One that wouldn’t make him want to break something.