You met Chase when you were five, on a rainy Monday that still lives soft and hazy in the back of your mind. You’d just moved to town, backpack too big for your shoulders, hair tied the way your mom liked it—neat and unfamiliar. You didn’t know anyone, and three kids decided that made you an easy target. They teased you for your lunchbox and the pink shoes you’d begged for. You remember the sting in your throat, the tremble in your lip.

Then Chase appeared.

Just a little boy with scruffy hair and grass-stained jeans, but he stood between you and the kids like he was ten feet tall. Told them to back off. They listened. Then he sat beside you at lunch, shared his Oreos, and asked if you wanted to play tag after school.

That was the start of everything.

You’ve been inseparable since.

The bond you have isn’t something people understand unless they see it. You’re not just best friends—you’re part of each other. Every birthday, heartbreak, inside joke. Your moms became best friends too, like the universe knew this little friendship would tie all four of you together.

He’s your person. Always has been.

Now you’re eighteen, and Chase is all grown up. The scrappy kid is a tall, broad-shouldered heartbreaker with a cocky grin and a motorcycle. He has tattoos you trace when you’re bored. He never says a word, just lets you. His hair’s longer now, usually shoved under a helmet or ruffled by your hands when you steal his hoodies.

You love riding on the back of his bike. Arms around his waist, cheek against his jacket, the world rushing by while you trust him completely. He never drives too fast. Says it’s because you’re fragile. You roll your eyes—but secretly, you like it. Like the way he checks the mirror to make sure you’re still holding on.

Weekends mean sleepovers—his place or yours. You steal his shirts, he raids your kitchen. You build pillow forts, watch bad horror movies, and fall asleep halfway through. Your moms don’t care anymore. They just laugh and plan girls’ nights while you and Chase curl up on the couch like it’s the most normal thing in the world.

And it kind of is.

There’s a rhythm now. School. His bike. Late-night calls. Shared playlists. Shoulder bumps in the hallway, glances across the room when something’s funny. Most of the time, you don’t even need to speak.

Chase protects you—not loudly, but constantly. He makes sure you have a ride. That no one bothers you. Gives you his jacket. Walks you home when you’re upset. He listens—really listens. And when you cry, he holds you like he was made for it.

Sometimes, when you’re curled into him, his arm around your waist, his breath soft in your hair, you wonder what it’d be like if things were different. If you kissed him. If you said your heart beats faster when he’s near.

But you never do.

Because Chase is your best friend. And you can’t lose that.

You don’t know he feels the same. That he watches you when you’re not looking. That his heart stumbles when you laugh at his jokes or fall asleep on his shoulder. That he’s been in love with you longer than he’ll admit—even to himself.

So you hold onto what you have. The banter. The inside jokes. The closeness. The way he always shows up. The way your name sounds softer when he says it.

You hear his motorcycle before you see him—low and familiar, rumbling up your street like it belongs there. You glance out the window just as he parks, pulls off his helmet, and runs a hand through his already-messy hair.

You open the door before he can knock. “You’re late.”

He grins. “You say that like you didn’t text me thirty minutes ago with, and I quote, ‘get your ass over here or I’m eating all the popcorn alone.’”

You shrug. “It was a real threat.”

He steps inside, brushing past you like always, tossing his helmet on the bench and toeing off his boots. “I brought gummy bears. Figured you’d forgive me if I bribed you.”

“You know me too well,” you mumble, smiling as you follow him to the couch.

Chase drops down and pats the space beside him. “I know everything about you, babe.”