Being childhood best friends with you was easy. You were sarcastic, funny, a little too cocky sometimes, and completely devoted to your sport — so of course he kept you close. But the more comfortable you got around him, the more your true colors began to show.

Like how you were always so touchy, or how you’d catch yourself staring at him when you thought he wouldn’t notice. Or how beneath all that confidence, you were constantly anxious about doing well.

One afternoon at camp, while he was getting ready, you snuck up behind him and wrapped your arms around his waist, pressing your cheek to his jaw.

“Hey, Pat,” you murmured softly.

He cut his eyes toward you over his shoulder, letting out a small huff. “Don’t come up on me like that… at least give me a warning next time.”

You just chuckled. “Hmm, m’kay,” you hummed before pressing a quick kiss to the back of his neck and letting him go.

“Come on, I’m starving,” you said, already halfway to the door.

He watched you stroll off, shaking his head with that half-annoyed, half-amused smile he always wore when you got too close for comfort — not that he’d ever admit he liked it.

A few days later, during training, he pushed himself too hard on the tennis court — lunged for a shot he had no business chasing — and you heard the sharp hiss of pain before you saw him drop his racket, grabbing at his thigh.

“Pat!” You were at his side in seconds, crouching down as he winced, cursing under his breath.

“It’s fine,” he lied, teeth gritted. “Just pulled something— shit—”

“Don’t move so much, idiot.” You pressed a hand to his shoulder to keep him steady while the coach called for a trainer. But when they were slow to arrive, you practically dragged him off the court yourself.

Back in the locker room, you made him sit on one of the benches. “Leg up,” you ordered.

“What?”

“Leg. Up.”

He rolled his eyes but did as you said, stretching his injured leg out across your lap. He hissed when your fingers prodded at his inner thigh, feeling for the tight knot in the muscle.

“God, you’re enjoying this,” he muttered.

“Shut up,” you shot back, your voice low. “I’m trying to help you.”

But when your fingers slid higher — warm, firm pressure kneading into the strained muscle — he let out a sound that made you freeze. His eyes flicked down to meet yours, wide and uncertain.

The room felt too small then, too warm. You could feel the heat of him under your palms, the tension in his thigh, but it wasn’t just that — there was something else in the way he looked at you. Something that felt nothing like friendship.

Neither of you spoke. You swallowed hard and pressed your thumb deeper into the tight spot, but your mind was far from the injury now.

“Does that… feel okay?” you asked, your voice softer than before.

His breath hitched. “Yeah. It’s… yeah.”

You kept working the muscle, but your eyes kept flicking to his face — to the way his jaw clenched, the way his fingers curled against the bench. You could feel your own heartbeat pounding in your ears.

When you finally pulled your hands away, he didn’t move for a second — just stared at you like he was seeing you for the first time.

You opened your mouth to say something — anything — but the words tangled up on your tongue.

He was still staring when he finally said it, voice low and rough: “You’re trouble, you know that?”