Dylan Hart - Boy Best friend

The argument starts stupid.

It always does with you two.

He’s got one knee up on the couch, controller balanced against it, thumb lazily flicking through a menu while you ramble about arbitrary gender rules that apparently don't apply between the two of you like you’re defending a thesis. The LED lights cast that soft purple-blue glow over everything, catching in his auburn hair when he tilts his head.

Dylan doesn’t interrupt at first. He just watches you dig yourself deeper, entirely too amused.

Then he huffs out a quiet laugh. “You hear yourself right now?”

You double down.

His brows lift slowly, his tone growing obnoxious. “No, no. Say it again. I treat you exactly like the guys. Word for word.”

He's almost delighted about the way you refuse to budge.

He sets the controller down carefully, like he doesn’t want to miss this. “You’re really choosing this hill? Out of all the hills? This one?”

He leans back into the couch cushions, dragging a hand over his face, shaking his head to himself. A sharp, stifled laugh escapes his lips. “We roughhouse. Yeah. I shoulder check you, steal your controller, tackle you into the cushions sometimes. That’s not the debate.” He points at you, his gestures slightly theatrical. “It’s about where my hands land. And you’re telling me that doesn’t matter. Not even a little bit.”

You don’t hesitate.

That’s when his mouth twitches.

“God, you’re stubborn,” he mutters, not annoyed. Almost impressed. He pushes himself up off the couch in one smooth movement and stands in front of you. “Alright. Cool. I’ll play.”

He leans forward, grinning like a total ass. “And you don’t get to flinch and then act like I’m the one making it weird,” he adds casually. “This is your claim were testing, I'm only doing this to bask in the glory when I'm eventually proven right.”

His hand comes up first to the top of your head, fingers pushing lightly through your hair.

“Easy enough,” he says, like that was never in question.

He gives you a light forehead flick before you can dodge, a childish stunt that's expected from him. He then slides his hand to your neck, thumb resting along the side just under your jaw. He tilts his head slightly, studying you like he’s reading micro-expressions.

“You look like you’re recalculating,” he mocks, eyes sparkling with mischief. There’s a faint smirk there. “Don’t start adding footnotes now. We’re going off your original statement.”

His hands drop to your shoulders next. Firm squeeze. The kind he’d use before shoving one of his friends back into a couch. He gives you a small push to prove the point.

“All good so far?”

He doesn’t rush the next part. His hands lift slightly, hovering in the space between your shoulders and lower. The air feels a little heavier than it did a second ago.

He glances at your face again, searching for hesitation he can weaponize for his planned relentless ragebait. “You’re not backing out, right?” he taunts. “Because I'm perfectly fine with you admitting I'm right before we finish this test.”

When you stay put, he exhales slowly through his nose, like he’s half amused and half regretting that you’re actually committed.

“Alright,” he says under his breath. “No special treatment.”

His palms settle over your chest. The same pressure he used on your shoulders. He doesn’t squeeze. Doesn’t move. Just rests them there like it's any other body part.

His jaw tightens despite how composed he looks. His eyes don’t drop; they stay locked on yours, steady and annoyingly confident.

“So,” he starts softly, his tone cocky, “still think I should be treating you exactly like I treat them? Or should I keep going and we'll see how committed you really are to this argument?”

The basement smells like laundry detergent and cheap energy drinks, LEDs casting that lazy purple-blue glow over the sectional while Dylan half-focuses on the game menu cycling on the screen. One knee’s hooked up on the couch, controller balanced against it, thumb flicking through options he’s not even reading. He hears the door at the top of the stairs open and doesn’t look right away.

He does when he catches the scent.

Not the usual faint body wash and whatever hoodie you stole out of his closet. Something warmer. Intentional. It hits him a second before you rounds the corner, and when you does, his brain stutters in a way he’s not familiar with.

Hair actually done instead of half-undone from shoving it back every five minutes. Makeup—real makeup, not the occasional gloss or mascara he’s seen once or twice. And the outfit.

He straightens without meaning to.

“You’re wearing makeup.”

It comes out flatter than he intended, almost clinical, like he’s trying to catalog what’s different so he can process it. His eyes drag—quick, then slower despite himself—taking in the way the top dips lower than anything you've ever worn down here, the way it fits instead of hangs. He swallows, shifts his grip on the controller like that’ll anchor him.

The explanation comes: a first date.

Of course.

There’s a strange half-second where that information doesn’t attach properly, like his brain refuses to stick it to what he’s looking at. Then it does, and something in his chest tightens in a way that feels stupidly disproportionate.

“Oh.”

Brilliant response. Real smooth.

“In that outfit...?”

He hears it the second it leaves his mouth and wants to grab it midair. It’s too blunt, too loaded, and the look on your face makes heat crawl up the back of his neck. He sits up fully now, controller forgotten on the cushion, palms pressing into his thighs as if he can physically steady this.

“That’s not—” He exhales through his nose, jaw flexing. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

Because he didn’t. He doesn’t think it’s ugly. That would be insane. The problem is the opposite, and that’s significantly worse.

His gaze flickers down again before he can stop it, then snaps back up to your face, stubbornly holding eye contact like he can will this into normalcy. “You don’t—” He stops again, sighing. Admitting this feels ridiculous, like confessing to something he doesn’t even fully understand. “...It just shows more than I’m used to seeing, alright?”

Which sounds accusatory. It isn’t supposed to be.

He runs a hand back through his hair, pushing it off his forehead harder than necessary, buying time. The image won’t leave—you sitting somewhere across from some guy, leaning forward, laughing, that neckline shifting just enough. Some random dude getting this version of you, the polished one, the one that smells like she planned it.

Why does that feel so off?

It’s not like he’s territorial. He doesn’t give a shit what girls wear. He’s never been that guy. And it’s not about people seeing skin; it's knowing that the effort, the careful detail, the deliberation, was for someone else.

He clears his throat, composure fraying at the edges in a way he’s not used to. “I’m not saying it’s bad, obviously.” Quieter now, less sure. “It’s just... a lot.”

For a date.

For him.

The thought sits heavy and unwelcome, and he can’t quite name why it bothers him, only that it does.