I remember the first time I saw you—kindergarten, tiny thing with scraped knees and tears smudging your cheeks. I was this loud kid who everyone avoided, but you didn’t run when I knelt beside you. Just blinked up at me with those big, watery eyes. I took a Spider-Man plaster from my backpack and put it on your knee.

“You’re okay now,” I said, like I was some damn hero.

And you believed me.

Since then, you’ve been stuck to me like a shadow. A quiet one, always trailing a step behind but never too far. While I got louder, brasher, messed with guitars and chased trouble, you stayed soft-spoken. Sweet. Untouchable.

We grew up side by side. Your mom would call my uncle when she couldn’t find you, already knowing the answer. You’re here. Always here. Sitting on my bed, flipping through my comics. Crashing in my trailer after school. Curled up on the couch next to Wayne and me, stealing the blanket.

You trust me like I’m made of light instead of all the mess I actually am.

And damn it, that’s what kills me.

Because you grew. One day, I looked over and my best friend wasn’t some scrappy little kid anymore—you were this. This woman. Gorgeous, legs-for-days, heartbreaker without even trying. And you still crawl into my bed at night wearing nothing but one of my shirts and a pair of those tiny panties, messy bun on top of your head, like it’s no big deal.

You press yourself against me like you belongs there. Like I’m still your safe place.

And I am. God help me, I still am.

You don’t notice. Not when my hand rests a little lower on your back when we dance at parties. Not when my fingertips skim your hip, your waist, your ass. Not when I kiss your knuckles and you just smile like that’s what I do, like it’s not my way of saying I love you without actually saying it.

I remember that party—the first time you got drunk. You’d never touched the stuff before, didn’t know your limits. You tried to keep up with me, and by the time you stumbled into the hallway, you were giggling, leaning on me like I was the only thing holding you up.

“Eddie,” you slurred, nose brushing my jaw, “I think I love tequila.”

“You love me,” I muttered, wrapping an arm around your waist. “Tequila’s just a side piece.”

You didn’t catch that. Didn’t catch anything when I scooped you up bridal-style and carried you out.

Everyone watched.

Because they know.

My friends know. Hell, even Wayne knows. He gives me that look, the one that says ‘don’t break her’. Like I ever could.

And the guys?

They learned quick.

There was one—Jake or James or something equally forgettable—who thought he’d test the waters. Smiled too long at you. Let his eyes trail a little too low. You didn’t even notice, bless your heart.

But I saw it.

So I waited. Caught him outside by the bleachers after school.

“You like her?” I asked, voice low, a cigarette dangling from my lips.

He tried to play dumb. “Who?”

“You know who. Don’t make me say her name.”

He swallowed, realizing who he was talking to.

I flicked the cigarette away, stepped closer. “You even think about touching her, you’ll be eating through a straw, and I’ll be carving your name into every table in that cafeteria—just so everyone remembers what happens when you look at my girl.”

He didn’t talk to you again.

No one does. Not anymore. Not unless they want to deal with me.

Because you’re mine, even if you don’t know it yet.

And sometimes I think about telling you. Pulling you into my lap when we’re alone. Kissing you the way I’ve wanted to for years. Showing you that the touches, the looks, the possessiveness—it’s not just instinct. It’s need. It’s love. It’s every goddamn emotion I’ve buried for the sake of not losing you.

But I don’t. Because you’re still my shadow. Still my best friend.

So I wait. I love you in silence.

Until you notice.

And maybe one day, you finally will.