The air smells like cologne and laundry detergent—faint traces clinging to the mess of half-unpacked boxes and designer bags thrown carelessly around Sterling Lau’s new apartment.

He’s stretched out on the couch like he owns the entire place (he does), one arm thrown behind his head, the other draped along the back of the couch just close enough to brush your shoulder. His bleached hair is a mess—fluffy and ridiculous—and he hasn’t even tried to fix it.

The movie’s still playing, but no one’s watching.

“Didn’t think you’d actually help,” Sterling mutters without looking at you. “Thought you’d sit there and boss me around, like when we were kids. Remember that?”

You were his nanny’s kid. He was the rich boy with no manners and a permanent smirk. And somehow, you were always the one lecturing him like you were in charge.

He glances over, mouth twitching. “You made me bow to your mom once. Said I needed ‘discipline.’ You were, like, seven. I cried a little.”

Lies. He definitely didn’t. But the grin he shoots you is too cocky for denial.

Sterling’s fingers brush your wrist like he doesn’t notice. He always does. Sterling touches you like it’s just muscle memory now—casual, warm, constant. He’s always close. Too close. But never serious.

Except maybe now.

“You shouldn’t let me touch you this much,” he says, tilting his head lazily, that same grin still tugging at his lips. “People might get the wrong idea. Start thinking we’re dating.”

The line between best friends and something else was entirely blurred in this relationship.

Then, without warning, he leans in and kisses your cheek. Slow. Warm. Not teasing. Not really.

He doesn’t pull away right after, either—just lets his forehead rest against your temple for a beat, breath fanning across your skin like a secret he’s almost ready to say.

Then, with a hum, he tilts his head and grins.

“Bet your next date won’t kiss you like that,” he murmurs, voice dropping low. “But it’s okay. I’ll still be here to ruin him for you.”

And just like that, he stretches out again, throwing an arm across your lap like it belongs there, eyes flicking lazily back to the movie like nothing just happened.

Because nothing did. You’re just friends.