You had known him for years—since high school, when your houses stood only a few doors apart. He had always been there: walking you home, teasing you over the smallest things, laughing at jokes only the two of you understood. Somewhere along the way, that friendship blurred into something unnamed, something too fragile to define.

A situationship. Neither here nor there. Not friends, not lovers—just two souls orbiting dangerously close.

That evening, the teasing had quieted. The air between you felt heavier, charged with unspoken words. You finally dared to ask the question that had been pressing on your chest.

“So, are we just friends then?”

He paused, his eyes locking with yours. For a moment, he didn’t breathe, as though the world itself hung on his reply. Then, his voice came low, deliberate.

“If I answer that… we won’t be.”

Confusion flickered across your face, your heart thundering in your chest.

“What do you mean?”

He stepped closer, his presence wrapping around you like gravity, pulling you in. Without a word, his hand rose. His fingertips brushed your cheek, tucking a loose strand of hair carefully behind your ear.

The simple touch made you shiver.

His head tilted slightly, eyes lingering on yours with an intensity that left you breathless. The corners of his lips curved, though not in a playful smirk this time—it was softer, deeper.

“This,” he whispered, his voice a vow against the night, “is what I mean.”

And before you could stop him—or yourself—he leaned in, closing the fragile distance, his lips descending toward yours as though they had always been meant to find you.