Summary: After a date stands her up, Logan doesn’t hesitate to pick her up. What starts as just another rescue between friends turns into a night neither of them will be able to forget.
If she called me after ten at night, it usually meant one of two things.
That night, the second I heard her voice, I knew it was the latter.
I'd learned to tell the difference a long time ago. When she drank too much, she talked faster than usual, laughed at absolutely everything, and had this annoying habit of losing her train of thought halfway through a sentence. When she was sad, though, everything about her became softer. Quieter. Like she was trying to convince herself she was okay, even when her voice gave her away before she could finish pretending.
So when I saw her name flash across my phone screen at 10:12 p.m., I answered before the second ring.
"Hey," I said, already on my feet before I even heard her breathe.
For a moment, all I could hear was noise on the other end. Music. Distant voices. A door opening and closing somewhere behind her. Then her voice came through, quieter than usual, carrying that tone that always made my jaw tighten without meaning to.
I frowned as I crossed my apartment toward the door.
"Depends," I said, even though I already knew I wasn't going to like the answer. "Why?"
I heard a sigh. Small. Tired.
Because it was always the same.
I closed my eyes for a second and tightened my grip on the phone.
Out of everything she could've said, that was exactly what I'd expected.
And exactly what I hadn't wanted to hear.
"Where are you?" I asked, already reaching for my car keys from the bowl by the door.
"Don't make me guess," I cut in, shoving my arm into my jacket while opening the door with my shoulder. "Where are you?"
Like she was trying to decide whether to tell me the truth or convince me I didn't need to come get her.
I let out a slow breath through my nose and ran a hand through my hair as I took the stairs two at a time.
"How long have you been there?"
I clenched my jaw so hard my teeth hurt.
I opened the car door and tossed my keys onto the passenger seat before climbing in.
"You don't have to," she said immediately, and I could picture her perfectly. Sitting alone at a table, trying to sound fine when she clearly wasn't.
"I'm still looking for my shoes," I lied, because there was no way I was giving her the chance to argue with me.
"You live twenty minutes away."
"And yet I'm still coming."
A small laugh drifted through the phone.
And for some reason, that was enough to ease some of the pressure in my chest.
"Thank you," she murmured.
"Because I'm still mad at a guy I've never even met," I said, pulling onto the main road.
"That's why I called you," she shot back, and I could hear the smile in her voice despite how tired she sounded.
I shook my head and pressed a little harder on the gas.
"That is not the reassuring explanation you think it is."
And this time she sounded a little more like herself.
Which somehow made me feel worse.
Because it meant she was used to me being the one who showed up whenever someone else disappointed her.
If someone asked me exactly when my problem with her had started, I probably wouldn't be able to answer.
Because it wasn't sudden.
There wasn't one specific moment where everything changed.
No dramatic scene I could point to and say, there. That's where it started.
First there were the classes we shared.
Then dinners at Malone's.
Then the long phone calls that started with an excuse and ended with one of us falling asleep with the phone still in hand.
Movie nights where neither of us actually paid attention because we always ended up talking instead.
Last-minute grocery runs.
Hockey practices she'd show up to because, according to her, Garrett had forced her to come.
Garrett couldn't force anyone to do anything.
Especially not watch hockey.
The truth was a lot simpler.
And a lot more dangerous.
And I liked having her there.
Because while I was slowly falling in love with my best friend, she seemed determined to date every idiot who crossed her path.
I'd lost count after the fifth one.
They all started the same way.
They all knew how to make her laugh within minutes.
How to look at her like she was the only person in the room.
How to say exactly the right thing to make her lower her guard.
And they all ended the same way.
Some took weeks to prove it.
But we always ended up in the same place.
And somehow, I was always the one picking up the pieces.
Because I showed up before she had to.
I found her sitting alone at a table by the window, her hands wrapped around a glass that looked long empty.
I forgot why I was angry.
Because she looked beautiful.
Which was a personal tragedy.
She was wearing a black dress I'd never seen before, her hair loose around her shoulders, subtle makeup making her eyes stand out even more.
There was nothing flashy about her.
Nothing that demanded attention.
And somehow I still forgot how lungs worked.
Then I remembered the asshole who'd left her waiting for forty minutes.
She looked up the second I approached.
Her expression changed immediately.
The sadness was still there, tucked behind the small smile she gave me, but at least she didn't look quite so alone anymore.
"Hey," she said, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.
She stood and reached for her purse, but I'd already grabbed it before she could.
She arched an eyebrow as she followed me toward the exit.
"You're not even going to ask what happened?"
I glanced at her and shook my head.
"Because right now I don't want an excuse to punch somebody."
The truth was I was a lot closer to it than I should've been.
She let out a breath that sounded half like a laugh and half like exhaustion.
"You can't go around hitting people just because they made me wait."
I opened the passenger door for her and waited until she climbed in before answering.
"It depends on the situation," I said, closing the door.
She shook her head, but the corner of her mouth twitched like she was trying not to smile.
"Because I knew you'd come."
I looked at her for a second too long before walking around the car and climbing into the driver's seat.
Because if I did, I'd probably say something I shouldn't.
The first few minutes of the drive passed in silence.
But not the uncomfortable kind.
Not the kind that made your skin crawl.
With her, it was never like that.
With her, silence felt different.
Like neither of us needed to fill every second with words just to feel less alone.
The radio played quietly in the background.
City lights flashed across the windshield in streaks of gold and white.
She rested her head against the window and stared outside for a while, and I took the opportunity to force myself to breathe normally.
Because I could still picture her sitting alone in that restaurant, wearing that dress, waiting for a guy who didn't deserve a single minute of her time.
And it was putting me in a terrible mood.
"My date's name was Brian," she said suddenly.
I let out a humorless laugh.
She turned toward me with a look of mock offense.
"What exactly is that supposed to mean?"
"It means Brian sounds like the kind of guy who stands up a girl at a restaurant and thinks a half-assed apology fixes everything."
"So is leaving you alone for forty minutes."
She looked back out the window, her jaw tightening.
—Surgió algo —murmuró, aunque ella misma no parecía muy convencida.
"Of course something came up."
She was quiet for a few seconds, and I thought maybe she'd drop the subject. I was wrong.
"Maybe he just wasn't interested," she finally said, with a nonchalance that made me tighten my grip on the steering wheel.
The sentence bothered me more than it should have.
Because she said it as if it were a reasonable explanation. As if someone could meet her, ask her out, and then decide she wasn't worth it. As if she could sit alone for forty minutes and think the problem was hers.
"Then he's an idiot," I said, more bluntly than I intended.
She gave a short laugh, but it wasn't funny.
"Not everyone who doesn't want to go out with me is an idiot."
"So far, the statistics say otherwise."
"That doesn't make sense."
"It makes perfect sense."
"No, it doesn't," she retorted, turning completely toward me now, with that spark of irritation that always appeared when she felt she was being treated as if she couldn't defend herself. "Sometimes things just don't work out. Sometimes people don't connect. Sometimes nothing happens, and that's it."
“And sometimes a guy leaves a girl alone at a restaurant after asking her out,” I said, keeping my eyes on the road. “That says a lot, too.”
“You don’t need to act like I’ve been personally insulted.”
She let out a long sigh and crossed her arms, looking back out the window.
“I don’t understand why it bothers you so much.”
The question landed between us with more weight than it should have.
Because the answer was too simple.
I forced myself to keep my voice steady.
“Because you always end up with the same type of guys.”
She turned her head toward me again, now clearly annoyed.
“Not all of them are the same.”
“It always ends the same way,” I said, and this time I did look at her for a second, long enough to see her expression harden.
“Not everyone is as lucky as you,” she blurted out, her tone shifting just enough for me to know she was starting to get really angry.
I let out a short, dry laugh, completely devoid of humor.
“Yeah,” she said, as if it were obvious. “You never have to worry about this stuff. When you like someone, you just go and get the girl.”
Because if she only knew.
If only she knew how wrong all of that was.
If she knew how many times I'd wanted to tell her it wasn't that easy. That there was nothing simple about loving someone who didn't see you the same way. That there was nothing lucky about spending years pretending you didn't care while you watched her go out with men who didn't know half of what she was worth.
But I didn't say any of that.
So I just clenched my jaw, looked back at the road, and let the silence settle between us again, though this time it wasn't calm.
Then, as if the universe had decided the night hadn't been miserable enough yet, the car jerked slightly.
And then I heard that horrible, dry, and definitive noise, which can only mean one thing.
“No,” I muttered, more to myself than to her.
She immediately sat up in her seat.
I glanced at the dashboard, then the rearview mirror, and finally slowed down to a complete stop on the shoulder.
“I think we just got a flat tire.”
I turned off the engine and sat for a second with my hands on the steering wheel, taking a deep breath to keep from cursing out loud. When I turned back to her, she was already unbuckling her seatbelt.
“Don’t even think about getting out,” I warned her before she opened the door.
She gave me a disbelieving look.
“Logan, I’m not a child.”
“Then don’t talk to me like I can’t get out of the car.”
"I don't want you to get dirty."
The words slipped out before I could stop her, and as soon as I said them, I regretted it. Because she stood still, and so did I.
The dim light from the dashboard illuminated her face just enough for me to see her watching me, first confused, then clearly surprised. I was already out of the car before I could reply, because if I stayed there a second longer, I'd probably say something even worse.
I opened the trunk, took out the spare tire and tools, and crouched down next to the damaged tire, hoping the manual labor would help me stop thinking about what I'd just said.
"You really don't want me to help?" she asked from the car doorway, leaning forward slightly to get a better look at me.
"Because I don't want you to end up covered in grease."
"And you're too beautiful to be lying on the ground changing it with me."
Because he had said that out loud.
And this time there was no way to pretend it hadn't happened.
She didn't respond immediately. For a second I thought he was going to be upset, that he was going to roll his eyes and tell me to stop talking like I was in a cheap movie. But he didn't do it.
Instead, she just stared at me with a strange expression, like she was trying to decide if I was making fun of her or if I was serious.
And I, of course, had no intention of helping her solve it.
—Can I at least hold the flashlight? —he asked at last, with a voice softer than he expected.
—Because if you get off, you're going to end up helping even if I say no.
—It's the only one you're going to get.
She gave a small laugh, and for the first time since she called me, the air between us stopped feeling so heavy.
He shook his head, but he was already smiling.
And that was enough to make me forget, for a few seconds, how angry I still was at Brian, at all the previous Brians, and at the entire universe for always putting her in the hands of guys who didn't know what they had in front of them.
I crouched down next to the wheel again and started loosening the lug nuts.
"Are you sure you don't want any help?" she insisted, this time with a more playful tone.
"What if I told you I'm really good at holding things?"
"That doesn't surprise me."
"That sounded really bad."
I couldn't help but chuckle as I continued working.
"You told me that before."
She remained silent for a moment, watching me from the car doorway. I could feel her gaze on me, patient and curious, as if she were trying to read something I'd been hiding for too long.
And then, without warning, she got out of the car.
"No," I said immediately, looking up at her. "Don't even think about it."
"I'm just going to get a little closer."
"That's already too much."
"Logan, I'm not going to break myself by touching a tire."
"I don't want you to get dirty."
"You're starting to sound repetitive."
"And you're starting to ignore me."
"That's because I'm not paying attention to you."
I stared at her in disbelief as she carefully approached, skirting the edge of the oil slick next to the tire.
And for some reason, seeing her there with me, in the middle of the empty road, her hair swaying slightly in the wind and that small smile still on her face, made everything else seem less important.
Even the fact that I'd loved her silently for years, she crouched down beside me with exaggerated caution and handed me one of the tools.
I looked at her for a second before nodding.
And for the first time all night, she genuinely smiled.
And I, of course, made the mistake of thinking that maybe the night wouldn't turn out so bad after all.
It was a pretty stupid mistake.
Because less than thirty seconds later, I was already regretting letting her get so close.
"What do I do now?" she asked, watching my every move with almost exaggerated attention, as if changing a tire were some kind of secret ritual I was about to reveal to her.
"Nothing," I said without taking my eyes off the tire, even though I knew perfectly well that she wasn't going to like that answer.
She let out a theatrical sigh, crossing her arms with feigned indignation that didn't quite manage to hide the amusement on her face.
"That's boring," she murmured, leaning in a little closer to get a better look at what I was doing.
“Perfect,” I replied, because if there was one thing I knew how to do well, it was not give her what she wanted.
“You didn’t bring me all the way here to just stand there and watch,” she retorted, her voice a mix of complaint and laughter that always made me want to smile even if I tried not to.
“Technically, I brought you here so you’d stop waiting for some idiot at Malone’s,” I reminded her, and this time I did look up to meet her expression, which went from amused to offended in a matter of seconds.
She gave me a long look, one of those that promised an unnecessary and utterly entertaining argument.
“Are you going to keep calling him an idiot all night?” she asked, leaning a hand on the side of the car as she watched me with increasingly dwindling patience.
“Probably,” I replied without the slightest remorse, because at that moment I had no intention of being reasonable.
“Logan,” she said, dragging out my name with a warning that didn’t impress me in the slightest.
“What?” I asked, feigning innocence as I continued working.
“Get over it,” she finally said, and the way she raised an eyebrow made it clear she wasn’t going to budge.
“No,” I replied immediately, because if knowing her had taught me anything, it was that giving in too easily only encouraged her to continue.
“You don’t even know him,” she insisted, and now she was smiling again, though she was still trying to look serious.
“And I still don’t like him,” I said, barely shrugging as if it were the most logical thing in the world.
She shook her head, letting out a short laugh, one of those she let out when she'd decided arguing with me was a waste of time.
"You're impossible," she murmured, though her tone held no real reproach.
"You've told me that several times tonight," I replied, finally allowing myself to look at her for a second longer than I should have.
“Because you keep proving it,” she retorted, and the smile she tried to hide at the corner of her mouth made it clear that, despite her complaints, she was enjoying the struggle as much as I was.
I tried to focus on the wheel again. I really did. But she was still there, too close, watching my every move as if she were witnessing a live demonstration of something fascinating, not some guy crouching on the ground with grease on his hands.
Which, to be honest, was a terrible idea for my sanity.
“Now what?” she asked after a few seconds, leaning in a little closer to get a better look at the process.
“Now I take the wheel off,” I replied, loosening the first lug nut more than necessary.
“And then?” she insisted, as if she wanted to make sure I wasn’t just making up the procedure as I went along.
“I put the new one on,” I said, swiping the damaged wheel aside with a sharp movement.
“And then?” "—she repeated, and this time I did look up at her, because she was starting to sound a bit too amused with all this.
"Do you always ask so many questions?" I asked, raising an eyebrow slightly as I watched her.
She shrugged with irritating nonchalance.
"Only when I'm bored," she admitted, shifting her weight to one leg as she continued watching me work.
"Then you should find another hobby," I murmured, though the truth was I didn't want her to stop talking to me.
"I'll consider it," she said with a small smile, clearly pleased with herself.
I picked up the damaged wheel and moved it aside, placing it on the grass next to the car. She watched the movement intently, as if she were learning something important, and then frowned slightly.
"That looks heavy," she commented, observing the wheel with a mixture of curiosity and caution.
"It is," I replied, bending down again to put the spare on.
"Do you need help?" she asked immediately, and the twinkle in her eye made it clear she already knew what my answer would be.
"No," I said without hesitation.
"Are you sure?" she persisted, leaning a little closer to me.
"Yes," I answered, tightening the new wheel on its position.
"Completely sure?" she asked with a feigned patience that made my jaw clench.
"Yes," I repeated, this time more firmly.
"Absolutely sure?" she continued, now smiling broadly.
I slowly looked up, my expression hoping it would be threatening enough to stop her.
“I swear, if you ask again…”
“What?” she said, clearly enjoying watching me lose my temper.
“I’m going to let you change the next one,” I finished, the threat sounding far less convincing than I’d hoped.
She smiled with almost triumphant satisfaction, as if she’d just won something important.
“I knew you’d end up needing help,” she said, crossing her arms victoriously.
“That’s not what I said,” I replied, refocusing on the lug nuts.
“That’s exactly what you said,” she insisted, her voice carrying the kind of confidence only people who know they’re deliberately provoking you use.
“No,” I mumbled, tightening the wheel more than necessary.
“Yes,” she retorted, still smiling.
I sighed, because arguing with her had always been a losing battle from the start. Always had been. And, for some reason I still didn't quite understand, I'd never cared about losing as much as I did with her.
I watched her hold the flashlight while I finished putting the new wheel on. She was trying to look helpful, and the worst part was, she was succeeding, because every few seconds I found myself looking at her instead of what I was doing.
Which, again, was a terrible idea.
"You know," she remarked after a moment, with a nonchalance that made me look up at her. "This is pretty cool."
I blinked, convinced I'd misheard her.
"What?" I asked, because I needed her to repeat that before I decided I was losing my mind.
She tilted her head, amused by my reaction.
"Fixing things," she clarified, as if that were the most obvious explanation in the world.
"Fix a tire?" I repeated, staring at her incredulously.
"Yes," she said, and the way she bit her lip to keep from laughing made it clear she was enjoying this way too much.
"That's ridiculous," I muttered, turning back to the wheel so I wouldn't have to look at her anymore.
"No," she said, shaking her head.
"Definitely," I concluded, and this time I did glance at her.
She smiled with an unbearable calmness.
“Maybe you’re right,” she finally admitted, though her tone made it clear she wasn’t going to grant me much.
“Thanks,” I replied curtly, because I wasn’t going to give her the satisfaction of seeming too pleased.
“Although I think it’s more that you look attractive doing it,” she added then, with such nonchalance that the wrench slipped from my fingers.
Luckily, it landed on the grass and not on my foot, because at that moment I was too busy trying to remember how my brain worked.
She let out an immediate, genuine laugh, the kind that lit up her whole face and made her eyes sparkle.
“Oh my God, Logan,” she said between laughs, clutching her stomach as if she were having trouble breathing.
“Don’t say anything,” I muttered, bending down to pick up the tool with a dignity I’d completely lost.
“Did I make you nervous?” "—he asked, and the tone of his voice was so clearly mocking that it almost made me swear again.
"No," I replied too quickly.
"I made you nervous," he insisted, leaning in slightly to get a better look at me.
“No,” I repeated, even though I already knew she didn’t believe me.
“Definitely,” she declared, and the smile she gave me was so smug that I felt like abandoning the wheel half-on just to argue with her.
I wanted to argue. I really did. But she was too right, and that was the worst part of it all. So I simply picked up the tool, refocused on the wheel, and kept working while she continued laughing at me with a glee that, for some reason, didn’t bother me as much as it should have.
When I finished tightening the last nut, I leaned back with a long, tired sigh, placing a hand on the ground as I stretched my back a little.
“Done,” I finally announced, looking at the new wheel with minimal but genuine satisfaction.
She leaned over to get a better look, as if she needed to verify for herself that the job was done.
“Is it done already?” she asked, surprised that I had finished so quickly.
“Yes,” I replied, wiping my hands on my pants with an automatic gesture.
“I thought it would take longer,” she admitted, and the way she said it sounded more curious than disappointed.
“Thanks for your trust,” I murmured, raising an eyebrow.
“You’re welcome,” she replied with an innocent smile that fooled no one.
She leaned forward a little more to look at the wheel, and that’s when I realized that, at some point in the last few minutes, she’d managed to get grease all over both hands. I had no idea how she’d done it, because she hadn’t even touched anything important, but there she was, with black palms and an expression of utter indifference.
“You got dirty,” I said, gesturing to her hands with my chin.
She raised both hands in front of her and looked at them with a surprised expression.
“Oh,” she murmured, as if she had just noticed.
“I told you so,” I added, unable to suppress a smile.
“It’s not that big of a deal,” she replied, dismissing it with a nonchalant gesture.
“Sure,” I said, my tone making it clear I didn’t believe a word she said.
“Besides, you’re worse,” she pointed out, looking me up and down with an amused expression.
“That’s part of the job,” I replied, shrugging.
“How dramatic,” she commented, and the glint in her eyes made it clear she was about to do something that would make the situation worse.
Then she tried to brush a strand of hair away from her face with her greasy hand.
I saw the disaster coming before it happened. She didn't.
“No…” I started to say, but it was too late.
The black smear appeared on her cheek as soon as she ran her hand over her face, and then another one, because she immediately tried to wipe it off without realizing she was only making things worse.
“What?” she asked, confused, while I fought not to laugh.
I bit the inside of my cheek so hard it almost hurt.
“Nothing,” I said, too quickly.
“Logan,” she insisted, turning to me with a frown.
“Nothing,” I repeated, though I was already losing the battle against smiling.
“You’re smiling,” she accused, narrowing her eyes.
“No,” I lied, without much conviction.
“John Logan,” she said then, using my full name with an exaggerated seriousness that made me completely lose my composure.
I let out a short laugh, unable to keep up the charade.
“Go look at yourself in the mirror,” I said, nodding toward the car.
“Why?” she asked, still confused.
“Just do it,” I replied, and this time I was genuinely smiling.
She walked over to the car with a look of utter bewilderment, opened the rearview mirror in the sun visor, and stared at herself for a second that was long enough to fill the silence with indignation.
“Oh my God!” she exclaimed, bringing a hand to her face in horror.
I burst out laughing before I could stop it, and this time I made no effort to hide it.
“Don’t laugh,” she protested, turning to me with a mixture of embarrassment and anger that only made her look more adorable.
“I’m sorry,” I said, though I didn’t sound remotely apologetic.
“It’s not true,” she retorted immediately, crossing her arms and glaring at me.
“No.” “It’s not,” I admitted, which only made her frown more.
She pointed an accusing finger at me, her cheek still smeared with grease.
“This is your fault,” she declared, as if she were filing a formal accusation.
“How exactly?” I asked, raising an eyebrow as I tried to regain some composure.
“Because you let me help,” she replied, as if that explained absolutely everything.
“You forced yourself to help,” I reminded her, placing a hand on my hip as I watched her.
“Details,” she said, dismissing it with a wave of her hand, though it only made the smear on her cheek worse.
She tried to wipe it with her palm again, and of course, all she managed to do was spread the grease a little more.
I wasn’t even trying to stop laughing anymore.
Because seeing her angry about something so absurd was probably one of the most adorable things I had ever seen, and that was saying a lot.
“Come here,” I finally said, when I’d managed to control my laughter enough to speak.
She stood still, looking at me suspiciously.
“What?” she asked, as if she suspected I was about to do something worse.
I took a clean handkerchief from my jacket pocket and held it up for her to see.
“Come here,” I repeated, this time more patiently.
“I can do it myself,” she protested, though she was already taking a step toward me.
“Clearly not,” I replied, and the way she raised an eyebrow made it clear she wasn’t going to forgive me easily.
“How rude,” she muttered, though she was already coming closer.
“How true,” I answered, and that elicited a small exhalation from her that was somewhere between a laugh and a snort.
She snorted, but ended up coming closer anyway.
The wind blew softly around us, barely stirring the edge of her hair and making the night seem quieter than it actually was. The road was still practically empty, and suddenly the whole world seemed to have shrunk to that small space between us, to the smell of asphalt, gasoline, and something far more dangerous that I didn't want to name.
She stopped in front of me, close enough for me to make out every detail of her face, every little expression that crossed her eyes as she tried to decide whether to trust me or keep pretending she wasn't nervous.
And I, of course, realized that this stopped seeming like a good idea the moment I raised my hand.
I did it slowly, with a caution that had nothing to do with the grease on her cheek and everything to do with the way she was looking at me. I placed my fingers under her chin to turn her face just a little toward the car's headlights, and she didn't move away. Not even when I started to dab the stain with the handkerchief.
Not even when the silence between us grew so thick you could almost touch it.
Because something had changed.
I didn't know exactly what it was, but it was there, hovering between us with an unsettling clarity. It was in the way she looked at me, in the way I couldn't tear my eyes away from her, in the way neither of us seemed in any hurry to close the distance.
Because I'd been controlling it for years. Years pretending everything was fine. Years acting like being her friend was enough, like there was nothing more to ask of life than having her close. And that night, in the middle of an empty road, I was starting to feel like maybe I wasn't anymore.
She didn't look away either.
And for a ridiculously long moment, I forgot everything else. The wheel, the road, Brian, the hockey, the fact that I was about to do something stupid if I kept staring at her like that.
Her eyes. Her breathing. The way the wind gently moved her hair around her face.
"That's it," I murmured finally, removing the scarf more slowly than necessary.
My voice sounded deeper than usual, and that didn't help make the moment feel any less dangerous.
She swallowed before answering.
“Thank you,” she said softly, and for some reason, that simple word sounded far more intimate than it should have.
And that was probably a mistake.
Because for the first time in years, I had the absurd feeling that if I leaned forward just a few inches, everything would change.
But then she blinked, as if she suddenly remembered where we were, and the moment vanished as quickly as it had appeared.
The rest of the journey unfolded strangely, as if we were both trying to pretend nothing had happened while, at the same time, being all too aware that something had.
It wasn’t awkward. Not exactly. We kept talking, kept joking, kept making comments as usual, but there was a new tension between us, something subtle and persistent that seeped into every pause and every sidelong glance. It was as if we both knew something had changed and neither of us wanted to be the first to point it out.
When we finally arrived at her residence, I parked in front of the building and turned off the engine. She remained seated for a few more seconds, her hands resting in her lap, before slowly unbuckling her seatbelt.
"Thank you for coming," she finally said, turning to face me with an expression I couldn't quite decipher.
I watched her for a moment before replying, because the truth was, I had no intention of saying anything sensible.
Because the answer had always been the same. Long before I fell in love with her. Long before everything got complicated. Long before it started to hurt every time I saw her go out with someone who didn't deserve her.
"I'll always come for you," I said, and the words came out without thinking, honest in a way that didn't give me time to regret it.
And something crossed her expression. Something gentle. Something I couldn't quite interpret, but that made me feel I had just said too much and, at the same time, not enough.
"I know," she finally replied, with a calmness that disarmed me more than I expected.
My heart did something strange inside my chest.
Because she said it as if she truly knew. As if she believed it. As if she couldn't imagine a world where I wouldn't be there when she needed me.
And maybe that was the problem.
Because she was so used to me being there, always, without fail, that she'd never wondered why.
I watched her get out of the car and carefully close the door. She walked toward the building's entrance with that same quiet elegance that seemed to accompany her even when she was tired, and I watched her until she reached the door. Then she turned one last time to wave goodbye, and I raised mine in response before watching her disappear inside the building.
Only when the door closed behind her did I lean my head back against the seat and close my eyes with a long, tired sigh.
I let out a short, humorless laugh because after all these years, I was still exactly where I'd started.
In love with my best friend.
And every day it got a little harder to pretend I wasn't.
