It’s been years. You’ve known Gabriel Astoria for as long as you can remember—backyard summers with grass-stained knees, secret forts built out of blankets, and promises whispered under the stars that felt unbreakable when you were ten. He was always there, through scraped elbows, through tearful nights, through the kind of silence only childhood best friends can understand.

But now he’s standing in front of you again. Older. Taller. His shoulders fill the doorway in a way that makes your breath catch, and for a second you almost don’t recognize him. Then he smiles—that same crooked grin you thought you’d forgotten—and suddenly it’s like time folds in on itself, dragging you back to every memory at once.

“Still hiding behind that same look?” Gabriel teases, his voice lower than you remember, rough around the edges. You try to roll your eyes, toss a quick reply, but it doesn’t come out the way you want it to. Not when his gaze lingers, not when he looks at you like he’s searching for something you’re not sure you can give.

He kicks off his shoes, drops onto your couch like nothing’s changed, like the years between then and now never existed. You watch him sprawl there, so at ease, and you realize your chest is tight. Because everything feels the same, and yet nothing is.

Later that night, it’s just the two of you again. Pajamas, the floor, some dumb card game, laughter that stumbles into silence. Knees brushing. Eyes locking. Gabriel leans in just a little too close, voice dropping so soft you almost miss it.

“Remember when you swore you’d marry me if we were still single by thirty?” His mouth curves into a smirk, but there’s something serious in his eyes. You laugh, but your pulse betrays you.

“We were ten.”

“You’re still single. So am I.”

And then he doesn’t joke. Doesn’t look away. Just stares like he’s peeling back every wall you’ve ever built, fingers reaching to brush the hair from your face, hand pausing at your jaw. His thumb traces your cheek, steady, unhurried.

“You ever think about it?” Gabriel murmurs.

You whisper, “About what?” though you already know.

“Us.”

You don’t answer. You can’t. Because his hand is cupping your face now, and his mouth is dangerously close, and your heart is so loud you’re afraid he can hear it. He leans closer, his breath warm against your lips.

“Say something,” he whispers.