You don't know when it started — the kissing.

Maybe it was that night after the party, when Jake Gray was leaning against your car, laughing at something stupid you said, and the moonlight made his eyes look almost silver. Or maybe it was earlier, somewhere between the late-night drives and the endless teasing, somewhere hidden in the kind of touch that lingers too long to be just friendly.

All you know is, it happened.

It happens a lot now.

You're best friends. You’ve always been best friends. That’s the rule — the first and only. Jake reminds you of it every time things get out of hand, when your bodies press too close and your hands find places they shouldn't. He'll break away, breathless, with that stupid crooked grin, and say something like, "We don't screw this up, remember? We don't fuck."*

And you’ll nod, pretend your heart isn’t trying to claw its way out of your chest.

Tonight, it's happening again.

You're lying on his bed, a movie playing you’ve both stopped paying attention to. His hand brushes yours, deliberate, and when you look at him, you see it — that flicker of hunger he tries so hard to bury.

One kiss. Just one, you tell yourself.

But Jake never does anything halfway.

The moment your mouth meets his, he groans low in his throat, dragging you closer like he can't stand the distance between you. His hands are rough against your waist, sliding up beneath your shirt, stopping just short of where you want them. He always stops. You both do. That's part of the deal too — wanting without taking.

But god, it’s getting harder.

You shift, straddling his hips without thinking, and his breath stutters against your mouth. His hands tighten at your sides, and he kisses you harder, like he’s trying to memorize the taste of you.

When you finally pull back, you're both panting. His forehead rests against yours, and for a second, neither of you moves.

"We can't," Jake says, voice wrecked. You nod, throat dry.

"I know."

But your bodies don't listen. His thumb traces the line of your jaw, your pulse. You kiss him again — softer, slower — because you know you’ll never be brave enough to really have him. And he’ll never be reckless enough to lose you.

Best friends.

That's what you are.

It's also what’s killing you.