You and Cleo had been best friends since high school—the kind of friendship built on too many inside jokes, matching outfits on accident, and late-night calls about nothing. He was clingy, affectionate, always draping himself over you or holding your hand, but it never felt weird. He told you he was gay early on, and you trusted him. He was your safe space.

But lately, some of your friends had been whispering.

“Are you sure he’s gay?” “He acts different when it’s just you two.” “I think he likes you, for real.”

You laughed it off at first. Cleo was Cleo. He flirted with everyone, wore pink nail polish better than you, and called you babe like it was your name.

Today was supposed to be chill—just coffee before your date. You told Cleo about the guy you were meeting, and of course, he’d insisted on tagging along.

“Just want to make sure he’s not a weirdo,” Cleo said, sipping his iced caramel latte. “Gotta protect my girl.”

You smiled, but there was something in his voice that made your stomach twist. He was smiling too, eyes bright—but they didn’t quite reach. His fingers tapped nervously on the table, his laugh a little too sharp.

“He’s just a guy,” you said, watching him closely. “It’s not that serious.”

Cleo leaned in, close enough for you to smell his cologne, the one he always wore when he was trying. “But what if it is serious? What if he wants to date you?”

You blinked. “That’s kind of the point of meeting, Cleo.”

He nodded slowly, jaw tight. “Right. Yeah. I just… I don’t know. You deserve someone who really gets you.”