I'm tired of hiding, tired of pretending she's just Emma'sfriend, tired of following rules designed to keep feelings contained when mine have been out of control for years.
I want to walk upstairs right now and tell her everything. Want to say that I love her, that I've always loved her, that the rules are stupid and I don't care about them anymore.
But I can't. Because she needs this to be safe, needs the structure and boundaries, needs to heal without the pressure of my feelings complicating everything.
So I'll keep playing this role. Keep being the friend who helps, the guy who supports, the secret she keeps.
Even though it's destroying me.
Even though holding her hand for those few seconds outside felt more real than anything else in my life.
Even though I'm so desperately in love with her that I can barely breathe when she's near.
I'll keep pretending.
For her.
18
MAYA
It's past midnight. Emma and Chase went to bed an hour ago, and Ethan is asleep too. The house is quiet, save for the dull hum of the refrigerator and Max's occasional, soft meow from somewhere upstairs.
I need to talk to Jackson. I need to understand what happened at the party, why he looked at me like that when we were alone on the patio, and why the air between us feels heavier every single day.
His basement door is cracked open, a sliver of light spilling onto the stairwell.
I descend slowly, each step careful and quiet on the worn wood. Maybe he's awake, watching game footage, or scrolling through his phone. We could talk, clear the air, and finally make sense of whatever this confusing thing between us is becoming.
I reach the bottom of the stairs and freeze.
His door is open just a sliver, and through the gap, I can see him.
Jackson is on his bed, head thrown back, one hand wrapped around his cock, stroking with a rhythm that steals my breath and sends a pulse of heat between my legs.
I should leave. I should back away quietly and pretend I never saw this, never intruded on his private moment.
But I can't move. My feet are glued to the floor.
Because in his other hand, he's holding a small piece of paper. A photo. Even in the dim light, even from this distance, I recognize it instantly.
It's me. From my birthday party a year ago, the night I kissed him.
He's getting off to a photo of me.Oh my God.
"Fuck," he groans, a ragged sound that cuts through the silence. "Maya."
My name. He just said my name.
I must have made a sound, a sharp, involuntary intake of breath, because his eyes snap open. He sees me standing in the doorway and instantly scrambles, dropping the photo, desperately trying to cover himself.
"Fuck. I'm sorry. I didn't—" He fumbles for his boxers, his face instantly turning a deep, mortified red. "Maya, I'm so sorry."
I step into the room, my focus entirely on him, and quietly close the door behind me.
"How long have you had that photo?" My voice is flat, devoid of emotion, and much sharper than I intend.
"What?"
