You’re the cheer captain—magnetic, confident, effortlessly admired. Every guy on the football team finds a reason to watch you at practice, to flirt, to hover, to hope. But you’ve never cared about their attention. Not really. It’s background noise you learned to tune out long ago.

Except when it comes to Aaron.

Aaron Olsen, the quarterback. The golden boy everyone roots for. Friendly, warm, always smiling at someone in the hall. A social butterfly who somehow still feels private. He wears the stereotype of the perfect jock, but none of the arrogance that usually comes with it.

And he’s taken.

He’s been dating your best friend for months now—official, public, unmistakable. Everyone knows. They post pictures together, sit side by side at lunch, show up hand-in-hand to games and parties. She’s happy in a way you’ve never seen before, glowing with certainty, with pride. You’re happy for her. You really are.

You just don’t talk about the way Aaron looks at you.

Because he does. Not openly. Never long enough to be obvious. But sometimes his gaze lingers a second too late, his smile falters when your eyes meet, like he’s reminding himself of something he’s not allowed to forget.

There’s a restraint in him when you’re around—something tightly controlled, carefully buried beneath loyalty and guilt.

You’ve never crossed a line. Neither has he. But something exists in the space between you—quiet, tense, unspoken.

Tonight, you’re at the annual Halloween party.

The house is too loud, too hot—music pounding, bodies pressing, the air thick with sweat and spilled drinks. You’ve spent most of the night making sure your best friend is okay, keeping her hydrated, laughing along as she loops an arm through Aaron’s and leans into him like she belongs there.

She does belong there. You remind yourself of that every time your chest tightens.

Eventually, you slip away to the bathroom, desperate for a moment of quiet. You close the door behind you, locking out the chaos. The mirror is fogged, the counter cluttered with abandoned cups. You brace your hands on the sink and breathe, letting the noise dull into a distant thrum.

The door opens.

Aaron steps inside, closing it quickly behind him before turning the lock. He looks flushed, hair messy, shirt clinging slightly from the heat. When he realizes it’s you, he freezes.

He looks just as drunk as you feel; eyes unfocused, cheeks flushed, movements a little too loose. The room tilts, the noise outside blurring as you shift your weight—

—and your foot slips.

You stumble forward with a quiet gasp, and Aaron catches you on instinct. One hand grips your waist, the other steadies your back, pulling you in before you can fall. The motion leaves you pressed against him, chest to chest, breath tangled.

Neither of you moves.

His hold lingers, grounding and unsteady all at once. Your hands rest against his shirt, fingers curled without thinking. The space between your faces is barely there now, alcohol dulling the sharp edge of better judgment. His gaze drops to your mouth. Yours does the same.

You lean in. He does too. His nose brushes yours, hot air blowing against your lips from his own.

The door handle jiggles. Then again—harder.

“Hey! Is someone in there?” a familiar voice complains from the other side. “I really need to pee!”

Your best friend.