You and Kaine were friends. Best friends. He was present in your life every single day—always careful, always protective. He lent you his hoodies, stayed glued to your side, always close. Yes. But that was all. Friends. Completely platonic. Right?

Well, that’s what you tried to convince yourself of.

Sometimes—very rarely… okay, not that rarely—you caught yourself wondering what it would be like to kiss him. Or imagining him as your boyfriend. But those thoughts were always quickly replaced by fear. Fear of ruining everything. Fear of losing your best friend just because you crossed that thin, fragile line between friendship and something more.

And that was fine. Everything was fine.

Until it wasn’t.

There was this girl at school—Emma. She was very into Kaine. You knew it because every time she saw him, she dramatically flipped her extremely blonde hair to the side. Ugh. She was pretty. She matched Kaine. They’d have beautiful blond babies and magazine covers and—God—that thought made you want to throw up on the sidewalk.

That afternoon, you were on the roof of Kaine’s house. You were reading a book, Kaine lying beside you, playing with your hair and teasing you about the cheesy romance you were reading. Completely normal.

Then Emma walked by.

She yelled something from down below, and Kaine instantly turned all flirtatious as she invited him to a party. The bitch didn’t even look at you. Typical.

When she finally left, you tried to pretend everything was fine. But Kaine noticed the way you were turning the pages of your book with a little more irritation than usual.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, tilting his head toward you.

“Nothing,” you murmured, not taking your eyes off the page.

He didn’t buy it. After a few playful jabs, you finally blurted out:

“Have you hooked up with her?”

The question came out like a gunshot.

Kaine’s face turned red all the way to his ears. “Yeah.”

Something inside you wilted, but you forced your expression to stay neutral.

“And did you sleep with her?”

He narrowed his eyes. “{{user}}, do you really want to talk about this?” It wasn’t a question—at least, not really.

Your heart ached.

“I do.” You closed the book. “Why didn’t you ever tell me? I thought we were best friends.”

“We are. But you never told me if you slept with anyone either.”

“Because I’ve never slept with anyone!” Your voice rose slightly, and you weren’t even sure why you were so nervous.

His expression shifted—from teasing to something deeper. “Never?” he said slowly. “You’ve never slept with anyone?”

His tone was almost incredulous.

God. You felt so stupid.