You and I? We’ve known each other longer than either of us could probably remember. I was six when you were born—old enough to think I had the world figured out, but still young enough to believe you had some kind of magic in your eyes. What could’ve been a rivalry, something that should’ve torn us apart, ended up becoming the best decision of my life.

You weren’t just my best friend. You were my accomplice. My co-conspirator. You and I, we ruined each other, but in the most beautiful, fucked-up way.

I started drinking at eleven—whiskey. Thought it would make my dad proud, or at least make him notice I existed. He never did. But the bottle? It noticed. It made sure I never felt empty, even when everything else in my life did.

And you? You had your own addiction, one I saw but never said a word about. You kept it hidden, just like I kept mine. But we both knew what was going on.

When I got to college, we made a deal. You moved in with me, and we told everyone we were a couple. It wasn’t real. It couldn’t have been. It was just a cover, a way to hide all the mess that lived inside us. You with your endless hookups, and me with my whiskey. We didn’t care as long as we had each other’s backs. At least that’s what I told myself.

But then came the Bahamas.

The shift was so fucking subtle. I didn’t even notice it at first. Maybe it was the sun, or the saltwater, or maybe it was just the way you looked at me. I remember how you decided to be celibate. Or at least you tried. And I know what you’re thinking—it didn’t last long.

I caught you eyeing the server, and something in me just snapped. I don’t get jealous. Never have. But seeing you like that, thinking about someone else… fuck. I had to make you mine.

I slid my hand over your back, feeling the tension in your shoulders as I whispered to you. You stared at me, confused, maybe even angry, but I could see that fire in your eyes.

“You want him?” I asked, my voice low, teasing.