Knox Overstreet had always thought friendship with you was easy.

Effortless, even.

From the moment girls started attending Welton, the two of you clicked in that dangerous way—too fast, too comfortable. You joked like you’d known each other for years. You skipped classes together. You sat shoulder to shoulder on stone steps after lessons, talking about nothing and everything, laughing until your stomach hurt. Being with you felt natural, like breathing.

And that was the problem.

Because somewhere along the way, Knox realized he didn’t just like you. He wanted you in a way that had no place to go. You were out of reach—untouchable not because you were distant, but because you’d made it clear. No dating. No labels. Just fun. Just chaos. Just flirting with Charlie Dalton like it meant nothing.

God, Charlie.

Watching you mess around with him—laughing too loudly, leaning too close, exchanging those looks—made Knox feel stupidly, irrationally jealous. And since he couldn’t have you, he did the next best thing.

Chris.

He didn’t even like her. Not really. She was convenient. A distraction. Someone to pour his attention into so he wouldn’t stare at you like a fool every time you smiled at Charlie. And honestly? Compared to you, Chris was easy. She was taken by some jock, which somehow made it simpler—less dangerous.

But you? You got invested.

You talked about his “crush” constantly, teasing him, encouraging him, helping him like it was your personal mission. You didn’t know it was fake. You didn’t know it was survival.

And he hated every second of it.

Friday came like a sentence being carried out.

After school, Knox announced—too loudly, too confidently—that today was the day. He’d go to Chris’s house. He’d make a move. He’d try. The guys whooped. Charlie smirked. And of course—

You volunteered to help.

So now you were in his room. Just the two of you.

The door closed behind you with a soft click that felt louder than it should have. Late afternoon light spilled through the window, dust floating lazily in the air. You sat on his bed like you belonged there, legs crossed, chin in your hands, eyes bright with focus.

“Okay,” you said, all business. “Walk me through what you’re going to say.”

Knox leaned against his desk, arms crossed, heart doing something stupid in his chest. “I don’t know. Normal stuff.”

You groaned. “No, no. You need confidence. Eye contact. Compliments—but not creepy ones.” You laughed. “God, you’re hopeless.”

He smiled, because he always did when you teased him, even though it hurt this time.

“What?” he asked. “You’re the expert now?”

You shrugged, grinning. “I just know people.”

You stood up and stepped closer, adjusting the collar of his shirt without asking, fingers brushing his neck like it was nothing. Like it didn’t send electricity straight through him.

“See? Like this,” you said. “Relax. Shoulders back. You’re cute when you stop trying so hard.”

Cute.

He swallowed.

You kept talking—about timing, about tone, about not being an idiot—but Knox wasn’t listening anymore. He was watching the way your mouth moved, the way you paced his room like it was yours, the way you cared so much about helping him end up with someone else.

He didn’t want to leave this room. Didn’t want to go to Chris’s house. Didn’t want this fake plan or fake crush or fake anything.