Snow pressed itself against the windows like it wanted in, melting in thin streaks that caught the streetlight and made everything look lonelier than it already felt. December had a way of sharpening the cold, but tonight it felt especially cruel — like it knew I was heading to your house again.

I should’ve gone home after practice. Coach was on my arse about exams, my mum was expecting me for dinner, and I still smelled faintly of the gym — sweat, rubber, the echo of yelling teammates. But my feet didn’t take me toward warmth. They took me here. To you.

Your house looked darker than usual. No lights except the bluish flicker of the telly from the sitting room — which meant your dad was still awake. Still drinking. Still everything you pretended didn’t tear you apart.

I knocked softly, the way I always did when I didn’t want him to hear. You opened the door with that forced smirk you always wear when you’re dying inside.

“Thought you’d be out with your fan club,” you muttered. Your voice was tight, rough. You’d been crying. Or yelling. Or both.

I stepped inside anyway, brushing snow out of my curls. “And miss seeing your charming face? Not a chance.”

You rolled your eyes, but you didn’t tell me to leave. You never did.

The cold hit me properly once the door shut — your house always felt like the world forgot to heat it. Your breath fogged in the air. Mine did too. The mattress on the floor was still overturned from earlier, sheets twisted like evidence. I didn’t ask. I didn’t need to.

You avoided my eyes and pretended to dig through your bag for something. Anything. Like always.

I should’ve stopped staring. I should’ve stopped noticing how your hands shook or how your lips looked bitten-red from stress. How the bruising shadow along your jaw wasn’t from football.

But I’ve never been good at pretending. Not the way you are.

I shouldn’t think about you the way I do. I’m not supposed to look at my best mate — the one who keeps swearing he’s straight, who dates girl after girl who all look suspiciously like me — and feel that hollow ache in my ribs.

But then you did that stupid thing where you push your fringe out of your eyes and swear under your breath, and I felt it again. That tug. That ache.

You’d never understand what it did to me, watching you try to perform straightness like it was a sport you kept failing but refused to quit. Watching you choke on the very feelings you swore you didn’t have.

And God — the worst part? You’d be so fucking beautiful in a dress.

That thought hit me like it always did: sharp, dizzying, wrong in all the ways that made it feel right. If someone stuck you in one — as a gag, a dare, anything — I’d fold. I’d burn. I’d give up anything just to see you look back at me with your guard down for once.

I shoved my hands into my coat pockets before they did something stupid, like reach for you.

“You eating tonight?” I asked softly.

“Not hungry.”

Lie.

“Your dad around?”

“Don’t start.”

Another lie. Another wall.

Silence stretched between us, cold and heavy. I watched you pick at your thumbnail until it bled. I watched you pretend you weren’t freezing. I watched you pretend you didn’t need me.

And I realized — for the thousandth time — that I’d sign away everything, every privilege I’d been born into, every bit of ease in my life… just to spend my misspent youth with you. Broken, angry, beautiful you.

But you weren’t mine. And you’d never let yourself be.

So I stepped closer, quietly, gently — the way you needed but would never ask for.

“Lou,” I murmured, brushing a bit of snow off your shoulder. “You don’t have to pretend with me.”

You flinched. Not from fear. From truth.

And suddenly, the room felt even colder.

“Pretend? You’re trying to be some fucking white knight like..like I’m some fucking charity case Harry. I’m not. So what, I don’t live in some two story house with working lights and heat and whatever else. Fuck off my back.” You snapped, I expected it. It’s who you were. How you work.

I took in a deep breath before speaking softly. “Lou, I’m not trying to pry.”