The door clicks shut behind you, muting the party’s noise. You step out onto the balcony beside him — Shane, Sombr, your best friend. The one you’ve been sleeping with for four months. The one you keep telling yourself it doesn’t mean anything with.

He doesn’t look at you at first. Just leans on the railing, city lights blinking in his eyes, jaw tight like he’s biting down words he’s not allowed to say.

You stand next to him in silence. Not touching. Not yet.

“You good?” you ask, your voice low. Casual.

He nods. Lies. “Yeah. Just needed air.”

But you know him too well. He only needs air when he’s trying not to say something.

You both watch the traffic for a minute.

Then he says it — not directly, but enough to change the air between you:

“Sometimes I think you don’t even see me.”

That hits. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

He laughs once, quiet and dry. “I mean—when we’re alone, it feels like something. And then we’re here, and you act like I’m just your friend again.”

You cross your arms. Defensive, even though you didn’t mean to be. “We said we wouldn’t make it a thing.”

“Yeah,” he says, finally turning to look at you. His voice is soft. Tired. “You said that.”

He steps closer. Just one step. Not touching. But close enough that it feels like something might happen if you moved even an inch.

He’s looking at you now — really looking. Like he’s trying to figure out if you’re about to let this fall apart, or let it become what it already is.

“I’m not gonna push you,” he says. “But don’t act like I don’t want more.”

You hold his gaze. Say nothing.

Because you feel it too — the weight of it, the way he says more like it means everything. But if you admit that, it all changes. You can’t go back to pretending.

So you do what you always do when it gets too close.

You look away.

“You know we’re just gonna ruin it if we try,” you say, too quietly. He lets out a breath, like he was bracing for it.

Then — because you hate the way his face shifts, how that tiny flicker of hope disappears — You step forward and press a kiss to his mouth.

Soft. Quick. Like a habit. Like an apology.

When you pull back, his hands are still at his sides. He doesn’t kiss you back.

Not this time.

“That’s not what I meant,” he says.