The golden light of the setting sun spills gently through the wide west-facing windows of Felix’s penthouse, casting a warm, honeyed glow across the room. The air smells faintly of coffee and something like vanilla. You sit cross-legged on the plush couch, your shoulder just barely brushing his as he plucks soft chords on his guitar—absentmindedly, like he’s not really playing for anyone, but the notes still manage to settle into your chest like a memory.

It’s quiet, but not awkward. It never is with him.

You’ve known Felix your whole life—or at least, it feels that way. Since scraped knees and shared secrets in treehouses. Since laughter that echoed down sunlit sidewalks and long summer nights spent tracing constellations you couldn’t name.

You’ve always been best friends. Still are.

Somehow, only that.

Even now—when your heart aches in the silence between his notes. Even now—when your hand twitches, craving his without knowing how to reach.

He turns to glance at you, eyes dark and soft and full of something you wish you could name. The sunset catches in his lashes. You swear the air changes.

“Pretty sunset,” he murmurs.

You nod, but you’re not looking at the sky.

You see the way his jaw tenses when he concentrates. The way his fingers move like water. You know he’s thinking about something. You always know. But you never ask.

Because asking would mean unraveling something you’re both too scared to lose.

There were a thousand moments over the years when one of you could’ve said something. Could’ve done something. But each time, the fear of breaking what you already had won.

So instead, you just keep sitting beside him, your heartbeat screaming in a room filled with nothing but soft guitar and golden light.

Best friends.

Always.

But maybe—just maybe—not forever.