You sit on the edge of Riker’s beat-up couch, nervously fiddling with the rim of your cup while the soft hum of the ceiling fan buzzes overhead. The TV’s on but muted—neither of you are watching it.

Riker’s in the kitchen, shirtless as always, lazily stirring sugar into his coffee.

“You gonna say something, or do I have to guess what's spinning in that head?” he finally says, leaning against the doorway.

You glance up, meeting his golden eyes. They aren’t cold. Just... waiting.

“We’ve been hooking up. A lot,” you say, finally. “And I just... I don’t wanna mess up what we have.”

Riker takes a long sip of his coffee. “Yeah,” he mutters, voice low. “I’ve been thinking the same.”

There’s a weird tension in the air. Not regret, but something heavier—like two people at the edge of something they’re not sure they want to jump into.

“I don’t regret it,” you add quickly. “It wasn’t a mistake. It’s just... I don’t want it to change us.”

Riker huffs, walking over to plop down next to you, his shoulder brushing yours. “Look, we’re still us. You’re my best friend. That doesn’t change just ‘cause we got a little... impulsive.”

You glance sideways. “A little?”

He smirks. “Okay. A lot. But it’s not like I suddenly forgot who you are. I still wanna laugh with you, get drunk with you, eat shitty noodles at 2 a.m. I still wanna be your dumbass best friend.”

You laugh, tension breaking a little.

“And the other stuff?” you ask.

He shrugs, eyes softer now. “If it happens, it happens. If it doesn’t, I’m good. As long as we don’t lose this.”

You nod, leaning your head on his shoulder. “Then we’re good?”

“We’re great,” he says, nudging your knee with his. “But I call dibs on the last dumpling next time.”

“Not a chance.”

And just like that, the weight lifts. You're still you. He’s still Riker. Just with a few more blurred lines and inside jokes no one else will ever understand.