“if you ever need it”
bestfriend!mike helping you paint your nails while simultaneously trying not to explode. enjoy!
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it’s late, like not-even-checking-the-clock late, and mike’s sitting cross-legged on the floor of your bedroom because your bed is “too soft” and he “can’t think” on it. he says that like he’s thinking about anything important. he’s not. he’s been staring at the carpet for ten minutes, tracing the same loose thread with his finger and trying not to think about how close your knee is to his.
he’s very aware of how close it is.
you’re on the bed, back against the wall, legs stretched out, nail polish bottles scattered between you like evidence of a crime scene. mike clocked the color immediately. black. obviously. and the way you rushed it. you always do when it’s late. when you’re tired. when you don’t think anyone’s paying attention.
he is. he always is.
he notices the smudge before you do, because of course he does.
“you missed,” he says, nodding toward your thumb.
he keeps his voice casual, like it doesn’t matter. like he didn’t feel a stupid, immediate urge to fix it the second he saw it.
you roll your eyes. “yeah, i know. it’s fine.”
mike watches you for a second longer than necessary. it’s not fine, though. it’s messy, and you’re going to notice it later and be annoyed, and he knows that because he’s seen it happen before. he hesitates, not because he doesn’t want to help, but because he doesn’t want to be too much.
he’s always balancing that.
he reaches for the bottle anyway.
“i can fix it.”
you laugh, and the sound makes his chest do that thing it always does, like something important just shifted. “since when are you good at that?”
he shrugs, shoulders hitching. “since i have sisters. and uh. too much time.”
what he doesn’t say is that he’s relieved you didn’t say no.
you slide off the bed and sit in front of him, knees brushing his. mike’s first instinct is to scoot back, give you space. his second instinct, louder and harder to ignore, is to stay exactly where he is.
he stays.
the room smells like nail polish and dust and your detergent. his hoodie still smells like you too, and he hopes you don’t notice the way he tugs the sleeve down over his hand to hide how warm his palm feels.
when he takes your hand, he does it carefully. not like you’ll break. just like it matters. like there’s a right way to hold your hand and a wrong way, and he really wants to choose right.
he starts with your thumb because it feels safest. the angle makes it easier to pretend this is just a normal thing friends do.
he focuses on the nail. the brush. the steady line.
halfway through the stroke, he feels it.
your eyes on him.
not intense. not weird. just there. watching him without thinking about it, the way you do when you’re quiet.
his heart stutters. his grip falters for half a second.
okay. nope. don’t think about that.
he keeps his eyes locked on your nail even as his face goes warm. he’s suddenly very aware of how close you are, of the fact that his tongue is doing that stupid thing again. he pulls it back in immediately, cheeks burning, hoping you didn’t notice.
he definitely hopes you didn’t notice the way his ears feel like they’re on fire.
she’s just looking, he tells himself. people look at their friends. that’s normal. just focus.
he adjusts his grip, steadies your finger with his thumb, a little firmer than necessary. the pressure helps. gives him something solid to anchor to.
“don’t move,” he mutters, mostly to you, a little to himself.
“i’m not.”
“i mean it,” he adds, softer. “last time you twitched and it went everywhere.”
“that was one time.”
“it was traumatic,” he says, completely serious.
he forces his breathing to slow. in through his nose. out through his mouth. paint the line. keep it clean. don’t mess this up.
eventually the feeling fades, that sense of being seen too clearly. he relaxes just enough to keep going, though his cheeks stay pink and he doesn’t look up again, just in case your eyes are still on him.
his knee bumps yours. he tells himself it was an accident. he doesn’t move it.
best friends don’t think about that stuff. he knows that. he also knows he thinks about it anyway.
he paints slowly, carefully, like he’s handling something delicate. the lines come out clean. it feels stupidly good when they do, like he proved something, even if he’s not sure what.
“you’re really focused,” you say.
“yeah,” he replies. after a beat, quieter, more honest than he meant to be, “i don’t wanna screw it up.”
what he means is this. the moment. the closeness. the way you trusted him enough to sit right here.
he realizes too late that it sounds like more.
when he finishes, he holds your hand up between you, inspecting it. he’s proud of it. of himself. of the fact that you let him do this. he tilts his head, squints, then nods like that settles something in his chest.
the silence stretches. not awkward. just full. the kind of quiet he only gets with you.
“see?” he says. “better.”
you look at your nails, then at him. when your eyes meet, mike forgets to look away. just for a second. long enough for his chest to tighten. long enough for a dangerous thought to surface and vanish just as fast.
he drops your hand the moment you pull back, like he held it too long without realizing.
“thanks,” you say.
“yeah. anytime.” he rubs the back of his neck, nervous habit in full force. “if you, y’know. need it. or whatever.”
you bump your shoulder into his, light and familiar. it still goes straight through him.
“you’re a good friend, mike.”
he smiles because that’s what he’s supposed to do. because he is your friend, and that matters, even if part of him wonders what it would be like to be something else.
“yeah,” he says. “you too.”
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