You have a boy best friend. His name is Freddie. He’s not shy. Not even close. You two met at a game and have been close ever since that day you started talking to each other on the field.

Freddie is confident — laid-back, flirty, and dangerously good with his hands. You don’t know how or when it started, but somewhere along the way, his touches stopped feeling friendly.

His hand on your thigh? Normal. His arm around your waist? Always. His fingers brushing your neck when he leans in to say something? Every damn time.

And the worst part? He knows exactly what he’s doing. He sees the way you freeze. The way you shift closer. The way your breath catches with every small touch from him.

Tonight, at his house in Los Angeles he invited you to a sleepover with the other teammates that included Max Muncy, Teoscar Hernandez, and Andy Pageś. It started playful — snacks, music, games. But now it’s movie time. The lights are low, everyone’s tired, and someone threw a giant blanket across the couch.

You sat down.

Freddie slid you onto his lap effortlessly.

No hesitation. No questions. Just grabbed your waist, spun you around, and tugged you into him like it was his spot — not yours. Or anyone’s.

And then came the hand. You froze.

His hand discreetly slid under the blanket. Found your thigh. Stayed there.

Fingers resting firmly. Thumb moving slowly.

You could feel the heat of his skin, the weight of it, the way it made your whole body tense in the best way. He noticed. Of course he did, he noticed everything.

He leaned in close — his voice low by your ear.

"Comfortable?"