Andrew wasn’t one for grand gestures or sappy moments. But tonight, here they were—two drinks deep at a dimly lit rooftop bar, city lights sprawling beneath them like a secret they both shared but refused to admit.

“So,” Andrew said, swirling the whiskey in his glass, eyes locked on their face. “Not a date, right?”

They smirked, raising an eyebrow, their gaze steady and teasing.

He reached across the table, fingers brushing lightly over their hand—a small, deliberate touch that sent a warmth through him he wasn’t ready to name. “I’m just here for the booze,” he muttered, trying to keep his voice steady.

They rolled their eyes slightly but didn’t say a word.

Andrew chuckled, shaking his head. The space between them seemed to shrink with every glance, every half-smile. The city faded away, leaving only the quiet hum of a night that felt electric—something neither of them wanted to admit was more than just friendship.

After a while, Andrew stood and offered his hand.

They took it without hesitation.

Outside, the cool breeze swept over them, and Andrew’s heart beat a little faster. The night felt charged, ready to spark, and for once, he didn’t want to hide it.

They walked together into the city streets, side by side, sharing a silence full of possibility — the kind of silence that promised maybe, just maybe, this wasn’t just a night out.