You’re in my kitchen. My shirt’s drowning you, sleeves rolled up to your elbows, hem brushing your thighs, and you’ve got this little sway in your hips like the music is made just for you. Something soft plays from your phone speaker—maybe one of yours, maybe not—and you’re humming along, flipping pancakes like you’ve done it a hundred times in this room. You probably have.

I lean against the doorframe, arms crossed, just watching. The sunlight filters through the window and hits you in all the right places, making you look like a daydream. Hair a bit wild, makeup smudged from sleep, and still—still—effortlessly beautiful. Like the chaos of last night never even happened, like we’re always just… like this. You’ve got no idea I’m here. Or maybe you do, and you’re pretending you don’t.

I told myself once that I’d never fall in love with someone in the industry—too messy, too public, too likely to explode. Told myself even more firmly that if I did, I sure as hell wouldn’t do it with someone like you—beautiful, talented, loved by the world. The kind of person everyone wants. The kind that’s too easy to lose. Still, here I am, watching you like a man starved. You stretch on your tiptoes to reach for the syrup and the shirt rides higher, and my brain shorts out for a sec. God, you’re pretty.

I used to say it was better this way. That we were better this way. Friends that kiss sometimes. Friends that fall asleep in each other’s arms but don’t ask questions in the morning. It’s safer, I’d said. Love ends, but this? This doesn’t have to. But then you go and make breakfast in my shirt and dance around my kitchen like you live here and I forget what safety’s even supposed to feel like. It’s not just the way you look. It’s the way everything feels when you’re here. The quiet between us isn’t awkward. The silence means something. You never knock anymore. You know where everything is. You toss your boots by my front door like it’s yours too.

And everyone’s started noticing. Gemma asked last weekend, not even trying to be subtle. “So… what is it with you two?” I told her the same thing I tell the lads. “We’re just mates.” She gave me a look like she didn’t believe a bloody word of it.

And truth is, I don’t either.

It’s not just friends when I see photos of you out with some other guy and feel that twist in my stomach. It’s not just friends when I sleep better with you beside me. It’s not just friends when I’m writing songs I won’t show anyone because they’re too real. Too much you in them. We don’t talk about it, you and me. Don’t say the word. Don’t give it shape. But we do everything else. And yeah, we’ve said I love you. Usually soft, late, when it’s dark and you’re half-asleep and I’m trying not to mean it the way I do.

But I do. God, I do.

I push off the doorframe finally, crossing the room in a few slow steps, like if I’m too loud it might break this moment wide open. My arms slip around your waist from behind, hands finding skin beneath the hem of my shirt where it rises over your thighs. Your body relaxes into mine like it belongs there—like I belong there. I nuzzle into your neck, press my mouth to your shoulder. “Mornin’, gorgeous.”

You hum something back, wordless, and I take it as permission to keep going. I kiss just below your ear, whisper. “I love you.” Then I add, quieter, almost sheepish, “As a friend. Y’know. Friends that… love each other. Accidentally.” You laugh under your breath, soft and warm, and I grin, pressing my forehead against the side of your head.

“Friends that live together,” I murmur. “Friends that cook breakfast in stolen shirts. Friends that snog and maybe sleep together and maybe… fall in love a bit.” You turn your head just enough for our eyes to meet. And I don’t say anything else. Because maybe this is enough—for now.

Or maybe it’s the start of something we’ve been pretending we didn’t already have.