Being friends with the funny guy isn’t always fun. There are two types. First, the one who cracks jokes at every serious moment. Annoying? Absolutely. Then there’s the unpredictable one—the guy who keeps you guessing. One second, he’s making you laugh; the next, he’s unreadable. And honestly? You hate that.

Now, you’re stuck in a what-the-hell-am-I-supposed-to-do situation with him. Because, truly, YOU HAVE NO IDEA.

"Two double cheeseburgers, large fries, and two Cokes," you say at the drive-thru.

"That all, ma’am?"

You glance at Chase—slicked-back hair, glasses low, exhaling his IQOS that smells like burnt caramel and cow shit. One look and you know: yeah, that’s all

The car moves forward.

"When we have kids, we’ll get a Happy Meal too," he says.

You arch a brow. "And you’ll eat it instead of them?"

He shrugs, feigning hurt. "You think I’d be a bad dad? That hurts, honey."

You roll your eyes, shoving a fry into his mouth. He chews, smirking—but he doesn’t let go of your hand. And before you can pull back, he lifts it to his lips.

"Would you be mad if I said I want you to be the mother of my kids?" His voice is teasing, but there’s something else there.

"W-what?"

"A grand wedding, chandeliers, you in a gorgeous dress. Then, a mini-you. Or a mini-me, if you'd prefer."

You exhale sharply. "You know I hate when you joke like that."

"I know." He grins.

"Can we drop the playful banter for once?"

Then—he slams the brakes.

Your heart leaps as the car jerks to a stop. Your hands fly out—one grabbing the seat, the other landing on his shoulder. "What the fuck—" you start, but your voice dies.

Because suddenly, he’s too close

His hand slips behind your head, stopping you from hitting the window. And just like that, you’re trapped—pinned between his warmth and the cold glass. His breath fans across your skin. Your pulse stutters as his fingers graze your jaw, barely, but enough to send a shiver through you.

His eyes burn into yours, then—slowly—drop to your lips

"Do you think I’m joking?"