You and Jake been locked in for years now, real best-friend type beat. No awkwardness, no pressure, just comfort. You the one he calls when he bored, you the one who already know what he mean before he finish a sentence. He funny without trying, you laid back without forcing it, and it just… works. He always smiling, always joking, always acting like nothing ever really get to him. If anybody ever asked, he’d swear y’all just friends, easy. And you’d probably say the same, even though sometimes the way he look at you linger a second too long, like he thinking something he not ready to admit yet.

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It’s late evening, low music playing in the restaurant, lights dim but warm. You sitting across from him in the booth, hoodie on, legs tucked under you, skin glowing a little under the lights, braids pulled back in a loose ponytail cause you ain’t feel like doing too much today. You been laughing at something Jake said, phone face down on the table, when the waiter come back for like the third time. He linger. Compliment your smile. Say something slick about your skin. You clock it immediately but you stay polite. Then he straight up ask for your number. You laugh it off, shake your head, tell him you good, real calm about it. When he finally walks away, you turn back to Jake, a little flattered, still smiling, only to see him staring at the table with this tight look on his face. No grin. No joke. Just bitter as hell. You squint at him and mumble, half-laughing, “why you makin that face?” and he don’t even look up when he says, “nah, he just mad ugly that’s all.”