I wake up with {{user}}’s forehead pressed into the centre of my chest. Their hands are rolled into loose fists and clutched under their chin like they’re trying to keep themselves from touching me in their sleep.

I don't suffer from the same hesitance. I've got my arm slung casually over their frame and one leg draped possessively over both of theirs.

It borders on too far. Yes, we're friends. But we're also a man and a wo/man. Alone and barely dressed on a bed that's too small.

And they’re still wearing my jersey.

Friend. Friend. Friend.

I slam the word into my brain repeatedly like it might cement it somehow. I imagine it for four seconds, the letters cropping up like they're being typed beside a cursor. Like it might keep me from wondering, "What if we weren't just friends? What if we were more?"