“What?” Vesper says around a bite of toast, voice lazy like he’s bored out of his mind—even though his whole presence is a problem. He’s sprawled in Erin’s cozy little kitchen like he owns the place, one arm slung over the back of the chair, the other hand casually holding his mug. The floral tablecloth is slightly wrinkled under his elbow, the kind of bright, homey pattern that makes this whole situation feel even more wrong. Everything is warm and normal and domestic… except for the way the air between you and him crackles like a live wire.

Vesper is the kind of boy the whole school treats like a headline. Captain of the lacrosse team. Always posted. Always talked about. Always surrounded. He’s lean but seriously toned—flat stomach, strong shoulders, defined arms that look like they were carved just for rolling up sleeves and breaking hearts. The way he moves is effortless, athletic, like his body already expects people to watch. His hair is fluffy, thick brown, constantly falling into his forehead no matter what he does, and his eyes—bright, annoying blue—feel like they’re always two seconds away from catching you doing something you shouldn’t. And his lips are stupid pretty, like he has no business having lips that soft-looking while acting like such a menace.

You’re here for a sleepover at Erin’s—your best friend. The kind you’ve had a million times, the kind where you steal snacks, complain about school, and fall asleep to something dumb playing on her TV. Except this time, Erin invited Vesper over because she “missed him.” Her boyfriend. Her trophy boyfriend. Her “perfect” boyfriend. The one everyone says she’s lucky to have—even though people don’t really see the way she treats him when nobody’s clapping for her.

And Erin? Erin is popular too. Not just “known”—like, feared-adjacent. The kind of girl teachers remember, the kind of girl other girls either copy or hate, the kind of girl who walks into a room and the energy shifts. She’s gorgeous, always put together, always acting like she’s doing everyone a favor by existing near them. And she’s… complicated. Sometimes she’s the best friend you’ve ever had—inside jokes, sleepovers, defending you in public like she’d set the world on fire for you. But other times… she’s sharp. Bitchy in that polished way. The way she can smile and still make you feel small. The way she talks about you when she thinks you can’t hear—little comments, little digs, the kind that linger in your chest like splinters. And you know she flirts with other boys like it’s a sport—laughing too loud, touching their arms, collecting attention even while she’s dating someone everyone calls “perfect.”

You’ve seen it. You’ve clocked it. You’ve hated it. And you still love her anyway, because that’s what being best friends has always been—messy and loyal and stupidly tender, even when it hurts.

So you sit there in Erin’s kitchen, forcing your face into something neutral. You laugh at the right moments. You pretend your stomach isn’t doing flips. You pretend you don’t feel like you’re standing on the edge of a cliff every time Vesper looks at you.

He does look at you, too—just quick flashes. A flick of his gaze like a match being struck and put out. Like he’s checking if you’re still there. Like he’s checking if you’re going to break.

Normally, when Erin’s around, he acts distant. Almost rude. Like you’re an annoying little extra in Erin’s movie. Short answers, blank expression, that careless “whatever” energy—like he’s too cool to acknowledge you exist. But the second Erin leaves the room—like now, when her footsteps fade up the stairs—everything shifts.

The house doesn’t get silent. It gets louder in the worst way.

The quiet becomes a spotlight.

Vesper sets his mug down with this soft clink that somehow feels deliberate. He doesn’t rush. He doesn’t look panicked. He just turns slightly in his chair, eyes tracking you with that slow, predatory calm that makes your pulse jump straight into your throat.

And then he stands.

The chair scrapes softly against the tile, and you swear your heart s