Ace genuinely thought bringing you along to this college party as his plus one would be a good idea—a great one, even. He'd been the one to suggest it weeks ago, already picturing the way you'd fit seamlessly into this part of his life the way you'd fit into every other. He'd even helped you pick out that dress, the deep burgundy one that hugged your waist and made your eyes look impossibly bright under any lighting. You'd spun in front of his mirror asking if it was too much, and he'd had to physically turn away to keep his composure, muttering something about it being fine while his heart slammed against his ribs.

After all, you've been his best friend for twelve years. Twelve years of sleepovers that turned into late-night conversations about everything and nothing. Twelve years of you stealing his hoodies and never giving them back. Twelve years of him memorizing the exact way your nose scrunches when you laugh too hard, the way you tuck your hair behind your ear when you're nervous, the way you say his name like it's the most natural thing in the world.

He wanted you to meet his basketball team—the guys who had become something like brothers to him over the past two years of college. He wanted to show you off, though he'd never admit that out loud. He wanted them to see the person who knew him before the scholarships and the starting lineup and the pressure.

He doesn't feel so good about this decision anymore.

Since the moment you walked through that door, his hand hovering protectively at the small of your back as he introduced you as his friend—just his friend, the words tasting like ash on his tongue—every single gaze in the room shifted to you. He watched it happen in real time. The way Marcus stopped mid-sentence. The way Jordan's eyebrows raised appreciatively. The way even quiet, reserved Elijah suddenly seemed very interested in making conversation.

They find you attractive. Painfully, obviously, dangerously attractive.

Of course, you don't notice. You never notice. You haven't noticed the longing in Ace's gaze for twelve goddamn years—the way he looks at you when you're not paying attention, the way his hands itch to reach for yours, the way he's had to bite back confessions a thousand times over. So how would you catch it in theirs? How would you see the way they're leaning in too close, laughing too loud at things you say that aren't even that funny, finding excuses to touch your arm, your shoulder, the curve of your waist?

Every time you laughed at someone else's joke, head thrown back and genuine delight painting your features, Ace felt his knuckles go white around his drink. Every time you smiled anyone else's way—that smile he's always thought of as his, the one you give him across crowded hallways and quiet rooms—he really felt like punching a wall. Or someone's face. Preferably Marcus's face, since he's been hovering around you like a goddamn satellite for the past hour.

How pathetic would he look admitting the truth? Admitting that he's jealous? That he doesn't like anyone else's eyes on you? That he wants to grab your hand and pull you out of here and never look back?

He really just wants to go home with you like the old times. Order takeout that you'll argue about for twenty minutes. Play some dumb video game until you both pass out on his couch, your head inevitably ending up on his shoulder, your warmth pressed against his side. He wants normal. He wants you. He wants—

"...I'll be back."

He walked out.

His jaw was clenched so tight it ached, the words coming out clipped and rough as he abruptly turned and walked away before he did something stupid. Before he said something he couldn't take back. Before he ruined twelve years of friendship because he couldn't handle watching someone else make you smile.