I shake my head, annoyed at myself.
What is wrong with me?
Two days ago I watched Ethan win a push-up contest on the quad—his shirt riding up, muscles flexing, that stupidly triumphant grin when he beat Troy—and, apparently, my brain filed that under “important data to randomly recall fifty times a day.”
I am not some primitive human meat sack who's attracted to the most alpha guy in the pack.
I refuse to be impressed by a few push-ups and the way his shoulder muscles moved when he?—
Stop. Just stop.
Though his lopsided grin when he caught me watching was admittedly...
No. Focus. Code. Algorithm. Not Ethan's biceps.
The bell above Sushi Palace's door rings.
I breathe in salt, soy, and toasted sesame—reset in progress—and freeze.
Miles Carver is eight feet away, laughing at something the hostess is saying. His profile is so familiar my stomach twists.
Miles.
My freshman-year lab partner, my late-night coding buddy, the boy I loved in silence for years—rightup until he introduced his “totally amazing” girlfriend to the group chat.
First week of freshman year.
“Is this seat taken?” a voice above me in the overcrowded CS lab asks.
I look up. Messy dark hair, crooked smile, holding a big water bottle. He’s the most handsome guy I’ve ever seen. Miles Carver, though I don’t know his name yet.
“All yours,” I manage.
He slides in beside me, immediately spills said water bottle on his desk. “Shit. Great first impression.”
I wordlessly hand him my pack of tissues. He grins like I’ve saved his life.
“I’m Miles. And you’re my hero.”
The thing is, no one ever really sees me. I’m the quiet girl in the corner, the one guys ask for homework help, not to hang out. But Miles? He looks right at me. Remembers my name and what I like. Texts me coding memes that make me snort-laugh in lectures.
By week three, we’re inseparable. He can’t code for shit, but he makes me laugh until I can’t breathe. I debug his disasters; he brings me caffeine at 3 AM. Everyone assumes we’re dating.
“Just friends,” we always say in unison, and I hate how easily the lie rolls off my tongue.
For two years, I perfect the art of almost. Almost touching when we reach for the same Red Bull. Almost kissing when he leans in to check my screen. Almost confessing when he drunk-texts me at 2 AM
“where would I be without u pipes?”
I’m sure he’s just waiting for the right moment. We both know this sort of love is rare, and he is scared of risking our friendship.
Last summer in the lab, everything feels different. Charged. He’s started playing with my hair when he’s thinking. Started texting me good morning every day. Started looking at me like?—
“We’re an unbeatable duo,” he says one night, nudging a Redbull my way. That smile that makes my chest ache.
This is it. Finally. He feels it too.
Then it’s the end of August. Harper Briggs posts on Instagram. Miles has his arms around her waist. Caption “I love doing life with this one”.
