The music pounded through the walls, lights dim, air thick with heat and noise. You stood in the kitchen, fingers wrapped around a half-empty cup, trying to pour another drink.

Then he walked in. Patrick Feely. Your boyfriend’s best friend. The one you shouldn't be thinking about. The one you couldn’t stop thinking about.

Your eyes locked across the room. His gaze didn’t falter. Yours did, too fast, too guilty. Your heart clenched like it always did around him, like it knew.

He stopped beside you, close enough to make your breath hitch. “Still with Hughie?” he asked, voice low, almost a whisper.

“Yeah.” It came out quiet, pained.

“I wish you weren’t.”

“Me too,” you whispered, bitter and broken, it cracked something open.

The air shifted. He leaned in slightly, his head dipped, like he might kiss you. Like he’d finally do what you both had been pretending you didn’t want.

But your phone lit up on the counter. Hughie.

Feely froze, jaw tense. And like always, he stepped back, heart on fire, hands clenched, doing the right thing when every part of him wanted to do the opposite.