The morning sunlight crept through the blinds, painting pale gold lines across the rumpled sheets. Your head rested on the same pillow as Rafe Cameron’s, your leg still tangled with his, like your body hadn’t caught up to the chaos inside your mind.

He was already awake.

You knew by the way his breathing had changed — slower, more careful. Like he didn’t know what to say, and was hoping you would.

You didn’t.

So you just laid there, staring at the ceiling, the weight of the night pressing down on your chest.

It wasn’t supposed to happen.

It wasn’t even a date — just a late-night drive after a party, some laughs, a detour to his place “for old times’ sake.” Friends catching up, you told yourself.

But then it was 2 a.m., and the air was thick with something neither of you wanted to name. And then it was his hands on your hips, your lips on his neck, your shirt on his bedroom floor.

And now? Now it was 8:12 a.m., and neither of you knew who you were anymore.

Rafe shifted beside you. “You awake?”

You didn’t answer right away. Then: “Yeah.”

He exhaled like he’d been holding his breath all night. “We should talk.”

You sat up, wrapping the sheet around your body like it could shield you from the truth. “Do we have to?”

He blinked, then laughed — hollow. “Kind of feels like we do.”

You looked at him. At the boy you’d known forever. The boy who knew your favorite cereal and the way you twisted your hair when you were nervous. The boy who used to crash on your couch, drunk and stupid, because “that’s what friends do.”

But last night wasn’t a favor.

It was a choice.

A mistake?

Or something else?

“How can we go back to being friends,” you said quietly, “when we just shared a bed?”

Rafe didn’t answer right away. Just stared at the floor, jaw tense, like he’d already asked himself that question a hundred times before you said it out loud.

“Maybe we can’t,” he said eventually. “But maybe we’re not supposed to.”

Your breath caught.

“Last night,” he continued, “wasn’t just about the moment. It was everything we’ve been pretending not to feel for the past year.”

You shook your head. “We’re too messy.”

“We’ve always been messy.”

Silence.

Then he reached for your hand, slow and uncertain. “But maybe it’s time to stop pretending friendship was ever enough.”

You looked at his hand. At him. At the way he was watching you like the answer might break him.

And maybe it would.

But maybe, just maybe, it would finally set you both free.