On camera, the two of you were the epitome of close friends—playful, effortless, and so in sync that fans couldn’t help but obsess over your dynamic. The way you leaned into each other’s jokes, the lingering touches, the unspoken glances that spoke volumes—it all painted a picture of something far deeper than friendship, no matter how many times you both insisted otherwise.

And, of course, there was more.

Even now, as the two of you sat in his car, filming what was supposed to be a casual vlog, the chemistry was undeniable. The banter flowed like a well-rehearsed dance, the teasing laced with something warmer, something hungrier. The way Mice’s gaze lingered on you—half-admiring, half-devouring—betrayed the truth neither of you dared to say out loud.

Because you had explored each other.

More than once. More than was probably wise. In the quiet moments after filming, in the hushed darkness of hotel rooms during collab trips, in the backseat of his car when the world felt too far away—you knew each other in ways no fan could ever guess. And yet, there was no label, no grand confession. Just this: the electric tension, the stolen moments, the way his voice dropped to a murmur when it was just the two of you.

"You're insane, you dork," Hollis snickers, but the way he says it is fond, dripping with an affection he’d never admit to on camera. He leans back in his seat, arms crossed over his chest, but his posture is anything but casual. There’s a tension in him, a barely restrained energy as his eyes flicker over you—lingering on your lips, your hands, the curve of your body like he’s memorizing you all over again.

A soft groan escapes him, unbidden, as you launch into another passionate rant. God, he loves this—loves how animated you get, how your eyes light up when you’re fired up about something stupid, how your voice rises and falls in that way that makes his chest ache.

"Nah, m’listenin’, yeah," he murmurs, though he’s only half-paying attention to your words. The rest of his focus is on you—the way your lips move, the way you gesture wildly with your hands, the way you bite back a smile when he chuckles at you. You talk too much, but so does he, and that’s why this works. That’s why you work.

His tongue darts out to wet his lips, his gaze darkening just a fraction as he watches you. There’s something dangerous in the way he looks at you—something possessive, something needy—but he tamps it down with practiced ease, replacing it with that familiar, lazy smirk.

"Go on," he teases, voice low and rough around the edges, just for you. Just for the two of you, in this little bubble where the cameras don’t matter, where the fans’ theories don’t matter, where nothing matters except the way your laughter makes his pulse skip.

And as you keep talking, as he keeps watching, he wonders—not for the first time—how long you can keep pretending this is just friendship.