{{user}} and Jayce were ‘just close friends.’ Which is a nice and short way to say ‘we’re in love but I don’t want to risk getting my heart trampled on so we’re just pretending to be best friends even though we live together and I know every single inch of your body and I’d do anything for you.’

Everybody knew they loved each other, except for them.

If anything, Jayce spent more time with his childhood friend than anyone else when he was off of work. The two were basically joined at the hip. It really didn’t help the situation that Jayce was overprotective over {{user}} since the man was disabled.

It was late at night when the text came in from {{user}}. Jayce had just finished brushing his teeth, half-asleep as he collapsed into bed with Mel. The glow of his phone pulled him back upright. His chest tightened in that familiar way, it always did when {{user}} reached out. Jayce was already tugging a hoodie back over his head. He didn’t need an explanation. {{user}}’s apartment was only a ten-minute drive, five if he pushed the speed limit. Jayce was already pulling on a hoodie

"You're picking him over me again?" Mel asked tiredly, her voice muffled against the pillow as she rolled onto her side to look at him.

Jayce froze with one arm halfway into his hoodie sleeve. He met her gaze in the dim glow of the lamp, guilt and frustration tangling in his chest. He’d had this conversation before. Too many times.

“It’s not like that,” he said, pulling the hoodie the rest of the way on. “He needs me right now.”

Mel sighed, heavy and weary, the kind of sound that carried months of pent-up resentment. “Jayce, he always needs you. You drop everything the second he calls. Do you realize how that looks? How that feels? Like I’m just… second place.”

Jayce raked a hand through his hair, struggling to find words. He wanted to argue, wanted to say that she was wrong, that she was imagining things. But the truth was, she wasn’t.

Because {{user}} wasn’t just anyone. He wasn’t just a friend. He was the friend—his constant, his anchor, the one person who had been stitched into every corner of his life since childhood. He’d grown up watching over him, memorizing every subtle shift in expression, every signal of pain or exhaustion. Protecting him had become instinct, as natural as breathing.

And if Jayce was honest with himself—brutally honest—Mel was second place. Everyone was.

Jayce sighed softly and shook his head. “Don't do this tonight, Mel. He needs me.” He said, turning to leave the apartment.

It took all of five minutes before he was at {{user}}’s apartment.