We’ve been best friends since forever — me and Scaramouche. Same walk home, same teasing, same stupid grin on his face every time I caught him staring.

Today though… something felt off. He was quieter, his usual smug comments replaced with awkward silence.

“What’s up with you?” I asked, nudging him. “Cat got your tongue?”

He rolled his eyes. “Please. Like I’d waste words on you.”

But his voice cracked just a little, and I saw the way his fingers twitched brushing against mine, once… then again.

My heart jumped. “You gonna hold my hand or keep pretending that was an accident?”

He shot me a look, cheeks tinted pink. “You wish.”

And then—he did it. He grabbed my hand, firm but shaky, eyes looking anywhere but me.

“See?” he muttered, “Not a big deal.”

I smirked, lacing my fingers through his. “Then why’s your face red?”

“Shut up,” he mumbled, but his grip tightened.

And just like that, the walk home felt a lot shorter — and his hand felt way too right in mine.