Jaxson Thorne had a problem.

A pretty significant one, actually, considering he was usually the sort of man who could talk his way out of just about anything. Interviews, awkward encounters with overenthusiastic fans, arguments with his manager, even the occasional disastrous first impression—Jax had a knack for flashing that crooked grin of his, throwing out a smart remark in his unmistakable Southern drawl, and somehow making everything work in his favor.

But apparently, confessing his feelings to his childhood best friend was where all that confidence went to die.

It was pathetic, really.

He'd spent the better part of three months trying to work up the courage to say something. Three months of catching himself staring a little too long whenever they laughed, finding excuses to call them between filming schedules, and feeling a ridiculous amount of satisfaction whenever their name appeared on his phone. Three months of convincing himself that he was imagining things, that he was simply happy to have his best friend back in his life after five years apart.

Except best friends didn't usually think about kissing each other in the middle of completely ordinary conversations.

At least, Jax sincerely hoped they didn't.

The worst part was that he couldn't even blame his feelings on some sudden infatuation. He'd known this person for most of his life. He'd seen them at their most embarrassing, remembered the stupid arguments they'd had as kids, and could still recall the exact sound of their laughter from when they'd spent entire summer afternoons getting into trouble together. They'd been part of his life long before anyone knew his name, long before the interviews and magazine covers and the exhausting expectations that came with his career.

And somewhere along the way, somewhere between their unexpected reunion and all the evenings they'd spent catching up, Jax had started wanting something more.

He just had absolutely no idea what to do about it.

Which was how he'd ended up inviting them over to watch a movie.

A movie. Brilliant. Foolproof. Completely normal.

Nothing suspicious about inviting your childhood best friend to your apartment on a Friday night, ordering enough food to feed a small army, and spending forty-five minutes pretending you weren't agonizing over whether sitting too close on the couch would somehow reveal the entire contents of your heart.

No, sir. Perfectly casual.

At least, that was what he'd told himself while pacing around his living room earlier that evening.

Now, several hours later, Jax was beginning to question every decision he'd ever made.

His apartment was dimly lit, illuminated mostly by the warm glow of a couple of lamps and the television playing the opening credits of a horror movie he'd selected with considerably more care than he was willing to admit. A half-empty takeout container sat on the coffee table beside two drinks, a bowl of popcorn, and a collection of snacks he'd bought specifically because he remembered which ones his guest liked.

He'd even cleaned the place.

Well, mostly.

The laundry he'd originally planned to leave draped over the armchair had been shoved into his bedroom, and he'd made a valiant attempt to organize the clutter of records, guitar picks, and scripts scattered around his living room. He'd changed shirts twice before settling on a faded black band tee, dark jeans, and his usual silver chains. His violet hair was still a little messy, but that was intentional. Obviously.

Jax Thorne did not fuss over his appearance.

He simply understood that looking good was a public service.

The knock at his front door interrupted his internal debate.

He practically tripped over his own feet getting there.

"Comin'!"

He yanked the door open, and the moment he saw them standing on the other side, his expression brightened into a genuine grin.

"Well, look who finally decided to grace me with their presence." He leaned casually against the doorframe, making a show of looking them over. "I was startin' to think you'd stood me up, sweetheart. Here I was, all dressed up and everything."

He glanced down at his shirt, then back at them with an infuriatingly smug expression.

"Okay, maybe not all dressed up. But you get the idea."

Stepping aside, he gestured for them to come in.

"Get in here. It's cold as hell outside, and I ordered enough food to suggest I was expectin' the entire neighborhood."

As soon as the door closed behind them, the familiar warmth of their presence settled over the apartment. It was something Jax had grown quietly addicted to over the past few months. Having someone around who knew him before the fame, before the carefully constructed public persona, before every conversation became an opportunity for someone to ask about his next project.

With them, he didn't have to be Jaxson Thorne, the actor.

He could just be Jax.

And, increasingly, that was the version of himself he wanted them to see.

"Make yourself at home," he said, heading toward the living room. "You know where everything is. Pretty sure you've seen more of this place than half the people who've actually been invited over."

He paused, looking back over his shoulder with a teasing smile.

"Which, now that I think about it, probably says somethin' questionable about my social life."

The evening began easily enough.

They settled onto the couch, picked at the food, and argued over which movie to watch despite Jax having already made his selection. He complained when they questioned his taste, insisted his choice was a cinematic masterpiece, and accused them of having no appreciation for the horror genre when they pointed out that the plot was ridiculous.

"Darlin', you can't criticize the realism of a movie where a masked man survives bein' hit by a truck three times," he protested, throwing a piece of popcorn at them. "That's not the point. The point is that it's entertaining."

He grinned when the popcorn bounced harmlessly off them.

"Besides, if you wanted a movie with a sensible plot, you should've picked one yourself."

For a while, it was easy to pretend nothing had changed between them.

They laughed. They traded insults. Jax occasionally stole food from their container despite having his own, earning a familiar look of disapproval that only encouraged him to do it again. Every so often, he'd glance over and find himself caught on something insignificant: the way the television's light illuminated their face, the sound of their laugh, the comfortable way they'd settled into the cushions beside him.

And every single time, he'd have to remind himself to look back at the screen.

It was becoming a problem.

A serious one.

Halfway through the movie, Jax realized he hadn't followed the plot for at least twenty minutes. He'd been too busy thinking about the person sitting beside him and the increasingly terrifying possibility that he might actually be falling in love with his best friend.

Get it together, Thorne.

He shifted against the couch, reaching for his drink to give his hands something to do.

He could do this. He was a grown man. He'd performed in front of thousands of people, stood on red carpets with cameras flashing in his face, and delivered emotional monologues without breaking character. Surely, telling one person how he felt couldn't possibly be more difficult than that.

Except those people hadn't mattered in quite the same way.

If a film flopped, he could take another role. If an interview went badly, he could laugh it off. If a critic hated his performance, he could prove them wrong in the next project.

But if he told this person he was in love with them and they didn't feel the same way?

He wasn't entirely sure he'd know how to recover from that.

He'd spent five years away from them once. He wasn't eager to find out what it would feel like to lose them while they were sitting right beside him.

Still, the thought of keeping it to himself was becoming almost unbearable.

The movie continued playing, some unfortunate character wandering into a dark basement while Jax barely spared the screen a glance.

"Hey," he said eventually.

His voice came out quieter than usual.

He cleared his throat and tried again, turning slightly toward them.

"Can I ask you somethin'?"

There was an unfamiliar hesitation in his expression, a small crack in the easy confidence he wore like a second skin. He rubbed his thumb along the edge of his drink, looking down at it before forcing himself to meet their eyes.

"Have you ever, uh..." He stopped.

Fantastic start.

Jax let out a breath through his nose and gave a short, self-deprecating laugh.

"God, this is gonna sound stupid."

He leaned forward, setting his drink on the coffee table. For a moment, he stared at his hands, at the silver rings on his fingers and the tattoos disappearing beneath his sleeves. Anything was easier to look at than the person he'd been trying to confess to for months.

"It's just... we've been spendin' a lotta time together lately, right? And I know we were always close, even when we were kids, but things feel a little different now."

He glanced at them, searching their expression for some indication of what they might be thinking.

"Not bad different," he added quickly. "Hell, definitely not bad. Just..."

He gestured vaguely between them, as though the right words might materialize out of thin air if he moved his hands enough.

"Different."

Brilliant. Absolutely poetic.

Jax had written better dialogue for characters who were being disemboweled.

He shifted again, suddenly aware of how close they were sitting. Close enough that he could catch the faint scent of their shampoo, close enough that his attention kept drifting toward their mouth before he forced himself to look away.

He swallowed.

"What I'm tryin' to say is..." He paused, his jaw tightening as he wrestled with the words. "I think there's somethin' I need to tell you. Somethin' I've been wantin' to tell you for a while now, actually."

His heart was beating hard enough to make him wonder whether they could hear it.

He'd imagined this conversation a dozen different ways. In some versions, he'd been effortlessly charming, delivering some perfectly timed remark that made them laugh before he confessed everything. In others, he'd been honest and vulnerable, and they'd looked at him with the same affection he felt whenever they smiled at him.

In none of those imagined conversations had he felt quite so terrified.

"I just..." He ran a hand through his hair, exhaling a frustrated laugh. "Hell, darlin', I don't even know how to say this without soundin' like a complete idiot."

For a moment, the words sat right there on the tip of his tongue.

I'm falling for you.

Four little words. That was all it would take.

He could tell them about the way he thought about them when he was halfway across the country filming, how he'd started looking forward to their messages more than the praise he got from people whose opinions were supposed to matter. He could tell them that he wanted to be the person they called when something wonderful happened, the one they reached for when the world got difficult. That somewhere along the way, his favorite person had become the person he wanted to kiss, and the realization had left him completely, hopelessly screwed.

He could tell them everything.

Instead, he looked at their face, saw the familiar warmth in their eyes, and lost his nerve.

Because what if they didn't want that?

What if they looked at him differently afterward? What if the comfortable friendship they'd rebuilt over the past few months became awkward, strained, or something they couldn't return to?

Jax could handle rejection from strangers. He could handle a room full of people deciding they didn't like him.

But he couldn't stand the thought of watching this person slowly disappear from his life again.

His shoulders sank a fraction.

"Actually..." He let out a small laugh, shaking his head. "Forget it."

He immediately regretted saying it.

Before they could make much of his retreat, he grabbed the bowl of popcorn from the coffee table and held it out toward them with an exaggeratedly casual expression.

"I was gonna say that I think you owe me a rematch on that stupid board game you cheated at last time you were here."

He shot them a crooked grin, hoping it looked convincing enough to cover the fact that he'd just abandoned the most important conversation he'd ever attempted to have.

"And before you start denyin' it, I distinctly remember you changin' the rules halfway through. Don't think I didn't notice, sweetheart. I'm a very observant man."

He leaned back into the couch, stretching one arm along the backrest behind them, trying to settle into the easy familiarity that had always made being around them feel like coming home.

But the movie had become little more than background noise, and his attention kept returning to the words he'd swallowed.

He wanted to tell them.

God, he wanted to tell them.

Instead, he glanced sideways at them, offering a softer smile that lacked some of his usual arrogance.

"Besides," he murmured, his voice dipping into that warm Southern drawl, "I like havin' you around. You make this place feel a little less... empty, y'know?"

It was the closest he'd managed to get to the truth.

He looked back at the television before they could see too much in his expression, reaching for his drink again.

"Now, hush. I'm tryin' to watch this movie."

A beat passed.

Then, unable to help himself, he added, "And if you tell anybody I got sentimental on you, I'll deny the whole damn thing."

His smirk returned, but it didn't quite reach his eyes.

For all his confidence, all his charm, and all the certainty with which he moved through the world, Jaxson Thorne had never felt quite so helpless as he did sitting beside the person he'd loved in silence for months.

He'd invited them over to watch a movie.

He'd almost confessed his feelings.

And somehow, he'd ended up challenging them to a board game instead.

Smooth, Thorne. Real smooth.

Still, he didn't move his arm from the back of the couch. He didn't put any more distance between them. And when he glanced over once more, the expression on his face held a quiet question he wasn't brave enough to ask aloud.

For now, he'd settle for having them beside him.

Even if it meant pretending that was all he wanted.

Jaxson Thorne had always been good at talking his way out of trouble. Interviews, awkward encounters, arguments with his manager—he could handle just about anything with a crooked grin and a smart remark delivered in that unmistakable Southern drawl of his.

He'd built a career on confidence, worked tirelessly to become the actor he'd dreamed of being since childhood, and learned to keep his personal life tucked safely behind a carefully maintained public image.

Then came the phone call that changed everything.

His childhood best friend—the person he'd reconnected with after five years apart, the person he'd spent the past several months falling hopelessly in love with—had been in a terrible car accident.

The injuries were severe. The doctors couldn't say when, or even if, they'd wake up.

A coma.

Jax remembered standing in the middle of the film set, phone pressed to his ear, unable to make sense of the words being spoken to him. He'd asked the same question three times before the answer finally sank in.

Were they going to wake up?

Nobody could promise him that.

For the first time in his life, Jax had absolutely nothing to say.

The First Month

Jax visited whenever his filming schedule allowed. He learned which vending machine served the least terrible coffee, which chair beside the bed was marginally less uncomfortable, and which nurses might let him stay a few extra minutes.

He hated the sterile smell of the hospital, the steady beeping of the machines, and the sight of his best friend lying motionless beneath the white sheets.

Most of all, he hated the silence.

He filled it with stories about his day, complaints about his costars, and jokes he knew would've earned an eye roll if they could hear him.

"You're missin' a hell of a lot, y'know that?" he murmured one evening, taking their hand. "My costar nearly took my head off with a prop last week. Nearly got myself killed, and I didn't even get a dramatic death scene out of it."

His smile faded.

"Miss you, darlin'."

Months Two Through Five

Jax's filming schedule became increasingly demanding, but he refused to stop visiting. He took red-eye flights, spent nights in uncomfortable hospital chairs, and drove straight to the hospital whenever a scene wrapped early.

His manager worried about his exhaustion. The press speculated about his sudden withdrawal from public appearances. Jax ignored them both as much as he could.

The only thing that mattered was the person lying in that hospital bed.

As the months passed, his visits became quieter. He brought their favorite music, an old photograph from their childhood, and stories about the movies he was making. He told them about everything they'd missed, as though he could somehow keep them connected to the world outside their hospital room.

But the guilt followed him everywhere.

He remembered the night he'd almost confessed his feelings, when he'd invited them over for a movie and ended up challenging them to a board game instead. He'd been so afraid of ruining their friendship that he'd convinced himself there would always be another opportunity.

Now, he wasn't sure he'd ever get one.

One evening, he sat beside their bed, staring at the faded photograph propped on the bedside table.

"I wish I'd just told you," he whispered. "I've spent my whole life chasin' a career, thinkin' I'd get around to everything else eventually."

His fingers curled around theirs.

"And now I'd trade every damn movie I've ever made just to hear you call me an idiot one more time."

His voice cracked, and he bowed his head.

"I'm still here, sweetheart. I'm not goin' anywhere."

He kept that promise, even when hope became difficult to hold on to.

The Sixth Month

Jax nearly missed his visit that night.

Filming had run late, and by the time the director called wrap, he was exhausted. His manager had practically begged him to go home and sleep before the following day's schedule.

But Jax remembered the promise he'd made.

When you wake up, I'm gonna tell you somethin'.

So he'd headed to the hospital.

Now, well past visiting hours, he sat beside their bed in the dimly lit room. His violet hair was disheveled, dark circles shadowed his eyes, and the black shirt he'd changed into did little to disguise how worn down he looked.

He took their hand between both of his.

"Hey, darlin'. It's me."

A faint smile crossed his face.

"I know I've been tellin' you the same stories over and over, so I'll spare you another lecture about my costar bein' an absolute menace on set. Though, for the record, they really are."

His smile faded as he studied their face.

"Six months," he whispered. "Six months, and I still don't know what to do with myself."

He took a shaky breath.

"I've been thinkin' about that night I invited you over. Remember? We were watchin' that awful horror movie, and I was gonna tell you somethin'. Had the whole thing planned out in my head."

He let out a quiet, humorless laugh.

"Instead, I challenged you to a damn board game."

His eyes burned.

"I was gonna tell you I was fallin' in love with you. That somewhere between seein' you again and spendin' all that time together, you stopped bein' just my best friend."

He swallowed hard, his voice beginning to tremble.

"I wanted to take you on dates. Kiss you. Be the person you called when you had a bad day. I wanted all those ordinary things I kept tellin' myself I didn't have time for because I was too busy chasin' my career."

Tears slipped down his cheeks.

"And now I'm sittin' here, and I don't even know if you'll ever hear me say it."

He bowed his head, pressing their hand against his forehead.

"I love you," he whispered. "I love you so damn much, sweetheart. And I'd give anything to have you back."

His shoulders shook as he finally let himself cry.

"You don't have to love me back. You don't even have to give me a chance. You can reject me the second you open your eyes, and I'll still be the happiest son of a bitch on the planet."

A broken laugh escaped him.

"I'll even let you win that stupid board game. That's how serious I am."

He lifted his head, wiping his face with his free hand.

"Just wake up. Please. I'm so tired of bein' scared."

For a long moment, he couldn't say anything else.

Then, so quietly it was almost lost beneath the hum of the machines, he whispered, "I love you."

Jax didn't notice the faint movement of their fingers against his palm.

He was too busy trying to catch his breath.

He didn't notice the subtle change in their breathing, either, or the slow flutter of their eyelids as the darkness that had held them for six long months finally began to lift.

All he could do was sit beside them and cry.

Until he felt it again.

A tiny movement.

His head snapped up.

Their fingers had curled weakly around his.

And their eyes were open.

Jax froze.

For one impossible second, he couldn't move or speak. He stared at them, his mouth parting, his heart pounding hard enough to hurt.

"Sweetheart?"

His voice came out as little more than a whisper.

He scrambled to his feet, nearly knocking over his chair, and pressed the call button with trembling fingers.

"Oh, my God."

He looked back at them, tears still clinging to his lashes.

"You're awake."

A breathless laugh escaped him, and he covered his mouth with his hand.

"You're actually awake."

He returned to their bedside, gently holding their hand, suddenly terrified of overwhelming them. He wanted to hug them, to pull them close, to make up for six months of lost time—but he settled for brushing his thumb over their knuckles.

"Hey, hey. Don't try to move, okay? Just take it easy. I'm right here."

His voice trembled.

"I'm right here, darlin'."

Then the embarrassment finally caught up with him.

"Uh..."

His cheeks flushed.

"Well, I reckon you heard a little more than I meant for you to hear just now."

He let out a nervous laugh, shaking his head.

"Fantastic timing on my part."

His expression softened as he brought their hand to his lips.

"But don't you worry about any of that right now, sweetheart. You just focus on gettin' better, alright? We've got plenty of time to talk about everything else."

He paused, his green eyes searching theirs.

For six months, he'd imagined what he'd say when they finally woke up. Now, with them looking back at him, all he could manage was the truth.

"I love you," he whispered. "And I'm so damn glad you're still here."

He offered them a watery, crooked smile—the first genuine one in months.

"Welcome back, darlin'."

He wiped his eyes, trying to recover a little of his usual cocky demeanor.

"Now, how 'bout we get you better before you start complainin' about how ugly I look when I cry? I've got a reputation to maintain, y'know."

His smile softened as he held their hand.

For the first time in six months, Jax wasn't talking to silence anymore.

He was waiting for an answer.

.