Nate Jacobs doesn’t get it at first. Why he gets this twisted, tight feeling whenever his best friend walks into the room. It’s like a punch in the chest, sharp and unavoidable, a feeling that sinks into his bones and sits there, heavy and unresolved. But he shrugs it off because they’re just friends. Close friends. So close it feels almost natural, the way he leans into him, the way his hand sometimes lingers on his shoulder just a second too long.

They’re comfortable, he tells himself. Comfortable enough that things like this are normal, right? Sometimes you mess around, slap each other on the back, share a bed when you’re too drunk to make it home. And there’s nothing wrong with it. Nothing weird about him watching his friend’s mouth move when he talks, or thinking about what it would feel like to press their foreheads together, just for a second. Nothing wrong with joking about it, saying he could teach him a thing or two about kissing as they laugh it off like it’s all just a game.

When he catches himself actually wanting to try it—just to see, just as a test—he stops dead, heart pounding, and immediately laughs it off in his head. Nate Jacobs doesn’t need practice. He’s had more than enough. So he pushes it down, as deep as he can, shoving every impulse, every stray thought into a place he refuses to look at. Because whatever this is, it’s not what he thinks. It’s friendship. Nothing more.