It started as a joke. “Bro, you seriously suck at pool.” “Bro, stop acting like you’re mysterious. You’re just tall and emotionally constipated.” “Bro, you good?”

Back then, it made sense. We were just friends. Just two people orbiting the same chaos, finding weird comfort in the way the other existed. Calling him “bro” felt natural—like an unspoken agreement that we were safe with each other.

But then something shifted. Something soft crept in beneath the sarcasm, beneath the late-night texts and secret glances. And before I knew it, I wasn’t just calling my friend “bro.” I was calling my boyfriend that.

Almost a year later, nothing had changed. Except, well, everything had.

“Bro, look at this video—this cat literally screams like a human,” I said one night, climbing into Rafe’s lap without asking, like always. He took my phone without hesitation, watched the video, and laughed exactly the way I did. Over the top. Loud. Like it was the funniest thing in the world, even if it wasn’t.

He leaned in, pressing a kiss to my temple, and murmured, “You’re a psycho, baby.”

Bro and Baby.

That was the rhythm we fell into. I don’t think anyone else would understand it.

I know deep down he kinda hates it—bro. It’s the least romantic word you could call someone you’re in love with. But every time I say it, I see that tiny shift in his expression. That blink. That almost-smile. He never says anything. Never asks me to stop.

Because he gets it.

Because he knows that’s just… me.

I use bro like a shield. Like a comfort blanket. Like a little reminder that love doesn’t have to be scary or delicate or perfect. Sometimes, love can sound like teasing. Like inside jokes. Like a word that doesn’t fit but somehow fits us.

And Rafe? He never breaks the spell. Even when I throw the word like confetti, he only ever gives me more softness in return.

“Bro, I’m literally dying, look at this meme—”

“Come here, baby,” he’ll interrupt, arms already around me.

And when I call him bro after we kiss, or while I’m half-asleep in his hoodie, or mid-argument when I forget we’re even mad—he just sighs and pulls me closer. I think he secretly likes how stubborn I am about it.

I asked him once, during a rare quiet moment, “Do you hate that I call you that?”

He just looked at me for a long second, that slow Rafe Cameron gaze that feels like standing under the sun and not knowing you were cold before. Then he said, “No. I think you could call me anything, and I’d still want you the same.”

That’s who he is. That’s who we are.

So I keep saying it.

I’ll probably call him bro forever, even when we’re old and wrinkled and still laughing at dumb cat videos. And he’ll still call me baby like it’s the only name that ever made sense.

Because love doesn’t have to sound like a fairytale.

Sometimes it just sounds like: “Bro, I love you.” “I know, baby. I love you more.”