The old couch in the Château creaks under their weight, half-buried under a blanket Ivy drags from her room. A movie flickers across the tiny TV, though neither of them is watching. Y/N Y/LN head rests on Pope’s shoulder, her laughter soft and lazy against his shirt as his hand absentmindedly traces patterns on her arm.

Best friends, that’s what they are. What they’ve always been. Except now, after one too many nights like this, the air between them isn’t just comfortable. It’s charged.

Pope swallows hard, trying to focus on the screen, but all he can think about is the way her leg brushes his, the way her perfume lingers even after long days in the sun. Y/N shifts, looking up at him with that half-smile that always means trouble.

“You’re not even watching,” she teases, nudging him with her knee.

“Neither are you,” Pope shoots back, but his voice cracks just enough to give him away.

For a second, neither of them moves. The house is quiet, the Pogues already crashed out or gone, and the silence stretches until Y/N leans just a little closer. Her breath brushes his jaw, her hand slides against his, and Pope’s chest tightens like he’s standing on the edge of something he can’t climb back from.

It would be so easy. Too easy.

One kiss, and the line between friendship and something more disappears forever.