You and Andrew and Nick had been inseparable since you could remember.

You met in elementary school, bonding over scraped knees and a shared obsession with Saturday morning cartoons. Weekends meant sleepovers at Nick’s house—pillows thrown on the floor, late-night snack raids in his kitchen, and whispered dares that felt like your own private Olympics. You built blanket forts in his living room, turned his backyard into your personal battlefield, and stayed up past midnight giggling until someone inevitably passed out face-first into a pillow.

As you grew, so did Nick. He’d always been lean, but by sophomore year he’d shot up nearly a foot, filling out his frame with muscle that made him look like he’d spent every second in the weight room. His voice dropped an octave, too—no more the squeaky kid who argued over who got to pick the next movie. Now he was calm, controlled, a little quieter, like he was figuring out who he wanted to be.

Through those years, your trio weathered everything: school projects gone wrong, heartbreaks, family drama. Andrew was the wild card, always dragging you into new schemes, while Nick became the steady anchor, the one who reminded you to breathe when your plan blew up in your face. You fell back on him more and more—his quiet confidence a balm when the world felt too loud.

But with that change came something new between the two of you. You noticed his gaze lingering when you laughed. He started leaning a little closer whenever you worked on group homework. His hand brushing yours over a comic book would send a jolt straight to your heart. You chalked it up to friendship, until you realized you’d been waiting, unthinkingly, for his brush of skin.

That evening, Andrew was late again—probably caught up in whatever mess he’d gotten himself into at the skate park—so you and Nick ended up in his driveway with a basketball. The sun had just dipped below the rooftops, casting long shadows across the cracked asphalt.

You dribbled the ball halfheartedly, still lost in thought about the way Nick’s eyes had flicked to you all week. He’d been different—more present, more thoughtful. You remembered how he used to tease you relentlessly, daring you to eat hot peppers or challenge you to three-on-three matches—and now he was gentle, offering tips rather than teasing jabs.

“Use your legs,” he said softly, stepping up behind you as you lined up a shot.

His chest pressed against your back, warmth seeping through the thin fabric of your T-shirt. His hands settled on yours, guiding your grip on the ball.

“Feet shoulder-width apart… bend your knees… follow through.”

You could feel the steady beat of his heart near your shoulder, the familiar but electrifying closeness of him. He leaned in a fraction, and you caught the clean scent of his shampoo mixed with the tang of evening air.

You jumped, released the ball—and it swished through the net.

Nick’s hands lingered on yours for a heartbeat longer. He stepped back, his breath soft in your ear.

“That was perfect,” he murmured.