Your favourite person

You and Thomas have been inseparable for as long as you can remember.

You met in kindergarten, two shy kids who somehow ended up sitting next to each other on the first day. From that moment on, you did everything together. Same schools. Same classes whenever possible. Same friend group. If someone invited one of you somewhere, they automatically invited the other too.

By the time you reached high school, people had already stopped asking if you were together. They just assumed you were.

And every single time, both of you would immediately deny it.

“Ew, no.” “We’re just friends.” “Literally just friends.”

No one ever believed you.

Now you were both older—working in the same office, still surrounded by the same circle of friends. Nothing had really changed. You still spent almost every second together. Lunch breaks together. Coffee runs together. Walking to the train station together after work.

You were basically attached at the hip.

The only time you separated was at the train station.

Your trains went in opposite directions.

Every evening played out exactly the same.

You’d stand on the platform together, talking about nothing and everything. When the train announcement finally echoed through the station, Thomas would pull you into a hug so tight it felt like he hadn’t seen you in months instead of eight hours.

And then he’d start kissing your cheeks.

Not once. Not twice.

Like ten times.

“Thomas,” you’d laugh, trying to push him away while he kept planting kisses all over your face.

“Shut up,” he’d mumble into your hair, still hugging you.

Totally normal friend behavior.

When the trains finally arrived and you both stepped inside your separate wagons, your phone would ring before the doors even closed.

Thomas.

Every time.

“You literally just left,” you’d say.

“And?” he’d reply.

You’d complain about him calling so much, but he knew you didn’t mean it. Because the truth was, you stayed on the phone the entire ride home.

Sometimes even longer.

Honestly, the only time you two weren’t talking was when you were sleeping—and even that wasn’t always true because sleepovers happened all the time.

Thomas was your favorite person.

And you were his.

If either of you ever drank, the truth always slipped out eventually.

“You know you’re my favorite person, right?” one of you would say.

And the other would always answer the same way.

“Yeah. You’re mine too.”

After the one disastrous night where you both got drunk and neither of you could remember what happened, you made a pact: only one of you was allowed to get drunk at a time.

Just in case.

Tonight, it was Thomas’ turn.

After work you had to go home separately for once because you both needed to change before the party. At the station, he hugged you tighter than usual, like he always did when he was excited.

“Don’t start the party without me,” he said.

“You’re the one who’s going to show up drunk already,” you teased.

Before your train arrived, he grabbed your face and kissed your cheeks over and over again like usual.

“Thomas!”

“Okay, okay,” he laughed, letting go.

Later at home, you changed into gray sweatpants and a black lacy top that showed a bit of cleavage. It wasn’t overly fancy, but it looked good—and it matched what Thomas had said he was wearing earlier: gray sweatpants and a black T-shirt.

You two had a weird habit of matching without even planning it.

You met again at the train station to go to the party together.

Thomas was already there when you arrived.

And already a little drunk.

“Hi,” he said with a big smile, immediately wrapping his arms around you.

“Thomas,” you laughed. “You’re already drunk?”

“Maybe.”

He refused to let go of you the entire train ride.

By the time you got to the party, he was fully drunk—and even clingier than usual. His arm stayed draped around your shoulders, his head occasionally dropping against yours while you talked to your friends.

At one point, you tried to step away to grab a drink.

Thomas followed immediately.

“Where are you going?” he asked.

“To the kitchen.”

“Oh.” He nodded seriously. “Okay.”

And then he followed you anyway.

From across the room, Stacey watched the two of you with an amused expression.

Thomas had his arm around your waist now, leaning down slightly because of his height—6’2 with broad shoulders from years of MMA training. Even drunk, he looked intimidating to most people.

But with you, he looked… soft.

Stacey walked over, raising an eyebrow.

“You sure he’s not in love with you?” she said.

You rolled your eyes immediately.

“He’s drunk.”

Right at that moment, Thomas tightened his hold on you and rested his chin on top of your head.

“Don’t steal her,” he muttered toward Stacey.

She stared at him.

Then at you.

Then back at him.

“Yeah,” she said slowly. “Definitely not in love.”

(About Thomas: He is 6’2, he has browns hair and blue eyes. He is 20 years old. (u are 19) He is has broad shoulders and does MMA in his free time. Had a few fights already and always won. A smoker (just like you.)