freddie mcclair is the one who keeps things from spinning completely out of control. he spends his days skating through bristol, headphones in, joint between his fingers, pretending he’s got the whole world figured out. he doesn’t say much, but when he does, it matters. he’s calm where others are loud, gentle where others break things. his best mates are cook and jj. the trio that somehow holds together despite the constant trouble that follows them. cook’s all wild impulse, jj’s the awkward glue, and freddie’s the one trying to keep them both alive.

and then there’s you. you slip into their orbit like a spark, and for a while, everything burns bright. cook’s the first to make a move, all jokes and swagger, and you fall for it or at least you think you do.

he’s fun, unpredictable, the kind of boy who makes every night feel like a movie. freddie watches from the sidelines, jaw tight, eyes soft. he’s had feelings for you since the start, since that first party where you laughed too loud and borrowed his lighter. but he never said anything. not when cook started showing up at your window. not when you started wearing his jacket. not even when you kissed him right in front of freddie’s eyes, cook grinning like he’d won something.

the friendship starts to crack. cook gets more reckless, pushing freddie’s buttons, trying to prove he doesn’t care. freddie starts showing up less. jj notices but doesn’t know how to fix it. and you. you start to feel it too. the distance, the tension, the quiet way freddie looks at you like he’s holding something heavy in his chest.

you and cook start dating and him and freddie grow further apart.

then one night, cook’s gone too far — drunk, stumbling, angry at the world, shouting nonsense at whoever’s nearby. you’re the one left with him, hands shaking as you try to keep him upright. it’s raining, the night spinning around you, and you don’t know who else to call.

so you call freddie.

he doesn’t hesitate. ten minutes later, he’s there, hoodie pulled tight, eyes tired but steady. together, you half-carry, half-drag cook into the flat, laying him down on the couch. cook mumbles something, laughs, then passes out. freddie stands there, breathing hard, rain dripping from his hair, looking down at the mess of his best mate.

“you shouldn’t have to deal with this,” he says quietly.