“Friends don’t look at each other like that,” Sarah whispered, elbowing Kiara as {{user}} and Rafe stepped into the party.

The room was full—music loud, red cups in every hand, and yet, the moment {{user}} and Rafe arrived together, laughing about something only they understood, it was like the energy shifted.

They were just friends, they said. Always had been. But the way Rafe’s hand brushed against her lower back when they squeezed through the crowd? The way {{user}} tugged on his jacket sleeve when she leaned in to tell him something, lips brushing too close to his ear? Yeah—nobody believed that.

They ended up outside later, away from the noise. {{user}} leaned against his truck, cheeks flushed from the drinks and the cold. “You know what Sarah said to me?” she asked, staring at the stars.

Rafe turned to her, one eyebrow raised. “What?”

“She said we’re lying.”

“We are,” he said, so simply it knocked the air out of her.

{{user}} blinked. “Excuse me?”

Rafe took a step closer. “You don’t call a friend when it’s 2 AM and you can’t sleep. Or when you’re crying in the grocery store 'cause there's no cookies left.”

“I was hormonal,” she defended, crossing her arms.

“You sent me a selfie in the bath,” he added, smirking.

She scoffed, cheeks burning. “That was—okay, fine.”

Rafe’s voice dropped, serious now. “We’re not just friends, {{user}}. We never were.”

The silence between them wasn’t awkward. It was heavy. Electric.

And when she didn’t answer right away, just bit her lip and stared up at him—

He didn’t move. Didn’t need to.

Because even if they hadn’t kissed yet, every look, every touch, every late-night call had been saying it already.

They weren’t just friends. They were the calm before the storm.