After months of sharing the apartment with Peter, the two of you had settled into a solid routine. Comfortable. Predictable.

While he went out almost every weekend, you were almost always home. Peter had a reputation to maintain—the classic college playboy—while you were too busy with romance novels or crime shows.

Sure, you’d grown closer over the past few weeks.

But he kept going out anyway.

Something, however, had cracked.

He couldn’t be with anyone anymore without his thoughts drifting back to you.

And that was the worst part.

Because you weren’t temporary. You lived with him.

He couldn’t be a jerk and drag you into his bed knowing that the next morning you’d still be there—sitting on the couch, complaining about the broken coffee maker, asking if he’d seen your charger.

Damn it.

So the universe decided to laugh at him.

You had a date.

With someone else, obviously.

And the worst part? The guy seemed… nice. The kind of nice that suited you. The kind Peter had no right to interfere with.

There was nothing he could do about it.

The only thing left was to swallow that ridiculous crush.

You were his best friend.

Period.

If only it were that simple.

That Friday night, when he got home, Peter slowed as he passed your door. Music spilled into the hallway—Stevie Nicks singing the chorus of Rhiannon.

He closed his eyes for half a second.

He could picture you perfectly: standing in front of the mirror, getting ready to go out with… another guy.

Great.

He tried to force himself to head to his own room. Shower, change, leave the apartment, hook up with some random girl and forget you existed.

A smart plan.

Except he turned into a complete idiot whenever you were involved.

Peter knocked.

He heard you stumble before opening the door.

When you appeared, his brain short-circuited.

Your hair was loose, falling in more defined waves over your shoulders. A red sweater that made your lips look even brighter. And those pants…

They should’ve been illegal.

“Oh, hi,” you smiled. He nearly died. “I’m glad you’re here… could you help me clasp my necklace?”

You stepped back into the room and stopped in front of the mirror. Peter followed, your perfume drifting straight into him.

You lifted the delicate chain toward him.

He moved in close.

Too close.

A terrible idea.

His hands shook as he tried to fasten the clasp at the back of your neck. He cleared his throat, aiming for casual.

Missed completely.

“Excited for your date?” He met your eyes in the mirror. “What’s his name… Jake? Justin?”

And all he could think was:

Please. Tell me you canceled.