“Apparently, my sister has jokes.”
“She always has jokes,” I say, though my voice comes out a little too quick.
I sit on the edge of the couch, closer to him than I planned. Too close. Our knees don’t touch, but I’m acutely aware of the space between us. Or the lack of it. I can feel his warmth at my side, solid and steady, like gravity has shifted.
I focus hard on my cup instead of the fact that he’s right there. That he just saw me naked not that long ago. That my skin still feels sensitive from the heat of the shower, like it remembers.
The lid is warm under my palm. I turn the cup slowly and spot the note scrawled on the side.
Call me for a good time. Cami.
Of course.
My mouth twitches despite myself. I should say something smart. Or teasing. Or normal. Instead, my thoughts keep snagging on how aware I am of Ollie’s shoulder beside mine. The quiet weight of him. The way his attention feels trained on me even when he’s pretending it isn’t.
I take a sip and stare into the coffee like it might save me.
Best friends are supposed to sit on couches like this without their pulse picking up.
Mine definitely does.
“What exactly is wrong with your sister?” I say with a laugh.
“Like today or in general?” He smirks.
I know he’s trying to lighten the mood. I mean, we’ve gone swimming, done so much life together, seen each other in swimsuits, but not completely naked. Although I really wouldn’t mind seeing Ollie naked. But best friends aren’t supposed to want to see each other naked. And best friends aren’t supposed to like it. And Ollie confuses the hell out of me.
I tilt my head up and groan. “Today has been the worst day ever.”
He leans back on my couch, looking far too pleased with himself. “For what it’s worth, this is the best day of my life.”
I toss a throw pillow at him. “Come on, hot stuff. Let’s go grab a burger.”
He catches it easily, like he always does, and grins. That slow, knowing one that makes my stomach do something inconvenient.
“Is that an order?” he asks.
“Don’t let it go to your head,” I say, already grabbing my jacket. “You’re just the ride.”
“Sure, I am,” he mutters, following me out.
The drive is quiet in the comfortable way we’ve perfected over the years. His truck smells like leather and cold air, with a faint trace of smoke from the firehouse clinging to his jacket. I’m hyper aware of everything. The way his knee brushes mine when he shifts. The way his hand tightens on the steering wheel when I change the radio station without asking.
He glances over once, then back to the road.
“So,” he says casually. Too casually. “You feeling human again?”
“Mostly,” I answer. “Still thinking about all the things I need to do tomorrow.”
“Yeah,” he says. “That tracks.”
We pull into the burger place on Main. One of those no-frills spots with cracked vinyl booths and a bell over the door that announces your arrival like it’s proud of itself.
He holds the door for me. Again.
I clock it immediately.
“Since when do you do that?” I ask.
