You're sitting on the carpeted floor, your back against the cold wall, feeling the faint hum of the music Lou was improvising earlier vibrating through you. To your left, Iggy exhales a puff of smoke that slowly dissipates into the air. His eyes, usually so intense and wild, are now glassy and soft, focused on some invisible point ahead. To your right, Lou is absentmindedly tracing the white lines on the table.

Then, Iggy breaks the silence, his voice rough and drawn out by the relaxation. "You know," he says, not looking at you, I've always thought... you have that thing... that stillness that drives me crazy and I just want one thing..." You feel a slight blush rising up your neck. You've heard things like this before, insinuations, glances that linger a second too long. You've always deflected them with a joke or a change of subject, keeping intact the fragile structure of your friendship.

Lou stops tracing the lines and lets out a low, raspy laugh. "Oh, come on, Jim," he mutters, also not looking at you. "We've all thought about it. The way you move, your legs..." They've never been this direct.

Iggy turns slightly, resting his elbow on his knee and looking at you with a crooked smile. "Seriously. Sometimes I look at you and... damn, I just want to lean in and... you know."