Sndr.cee

The morning light filtered through the gaps in the blinds, casting long, dusty beams of gold across the chaotic battlefield of our living room. Crumpled energy drink cans, half-empty coffee mugs, and loose sheets of sketch paper with scribbled notes were strewn everywhere—the battle scars of a project we had stayed up until four in the morning to finish. I blinked against the brightness, my head throbbing slightly from the lack of sleep, but the moment I shifted and felt the warmth beside me, the exhaustion didn't seem to matter so much. We had crashed on the same bed again. It wasn’t a new thing for us; when you’ve known someone since you were running around in dirt yards with scraped knees, boundaries become beautifully, terribly blurred. We didn't mind sharing a bed, sharing clothes, or sharing secrets. But lately, every time I woke up next to him, my heart did this stupid, erratic flutter that I had to desperately hide behind a sleepy yawn. I sat up, stretching my arms over my head and letting out a long groan. My hair was a bird's nest, and I could feel the cool morning air hit my skin. I was just in a black lace bra and a pair of oversized grey sweatpants that actually belonged to him. At 168 centimeters and 53 kilograms, his clothes always swallowed me a bit, hanging loosely off my hips, though the bra barely contained my 36-23-32 frame. I knew I had a big chest—he reminded me of it with his teasing remarks often enough—but walking around his place like this was second nature. I didn't mind it, and I knew he didn't either. Why would he? He’d seen me completely naked before, back when we accidentally walked in on each other during beach trips or when we were just too comfortable to care. To him, I was just Sky. His childhood best friend. His buddy. I looked down at him, still tangled in the sheets, looking incredibly soft and infuriatingly handsome with his hair messy and his eyes half-closed. The urge to lean down and press my lips to his forehead was so strong it actually terrified me. "Morning, sleepyhead," I rasped, my voice thick with sleep. I leaned over him, letting my hair fall forward to brush against his cheek, intentionally invading his personal space because flirting with him was my favorite defense mechanism. "If you don't get up right now, I might just have to use you as a mattress for the rest of the day. And trust me, I'm heavy after a night of stress-eating pizza." He groaned, swatting at my hair with a weak chuckle, his voice a deep, gravelly morning rumble that sent a shiver straight down my spine. "You're a menace, Sky. Go away. Let me die in peace." "No peace for the wicked," I teased, giving his shoulder a playful shove before swinging my legs out of bed. "I'm going to make breakfast because my stomach is screaming. You better be productive when I get back." As I walked out of the bedroom and into the small kitchen, the playful smirk faded from my face, replaced by a heavy, familiar ache in my chest. I leaned against the kitchen counter, taking a deep, shuddering breath. God, I was so deeply, hopelessly in love with him, and he didn't have a single clue. He thought it was all a game. Every wink, every lingering touch, every dirty joke, and every sweet comment—he just brushed them off as 'Sky being Sky.' He didn't know I was serious. He didn't know that every time I flirted with him, it was a desperate, disguised cry from a heart that was bursting at the seams. But I couldn't tell him. I was absolutely petrified of what would happen if I did. What if he didn't feel the same way? What if I confessed and it ruined the effortless comfort we had built over a lifetime? If I lost him as a potential lover, I could survive. But if I lost him as my best friend, I would completely shatter. So, I swore to myself, right there over the cold stove, that I would not confess. Not today. Not yet. Maybe never. I would keep wearing my mask, playing the flirtatious, carefree best friend, because keeping him close as a friend was better than risking losing him entirely. I shook my head to clear the heavy thoughts and set to work, pulling eggs, bacon, and bread from the fridge. The routine calmed me down. I put the bacon in the pan, the sizzle filling the quiet apartment with a comforting sound, and started whisking the eggs. A few minutes later, I heard him pad into the room. I glanced over my shoulder, my heart doing that familiar flip. He hadn't bothered to put on a shirt, just wearing flannel pajama pants, and he went straight to work fixing the bed, pulling the sheets taut and fluffing the pillows. I watched him for a moment, the sight of him doing something so domestic making my chest tighten with a mixture of affection and longing. "Smells amazing, Sky," he called out over his shoulder, smoothing down the duvet. "Of course it does, I'm a culinary genius," I shouted back, turning my attention back to the eggs so he wouldn't see the flush on my cheeks. I kept my back to him as he walked around the apartment, picking up the trash from our late-night project. I knew he could see me. I was standing there in just my bra and sweatpants, my bare back exposed to him, my curves completely on display. But there was no awkwardness between us. He didn't avert his eyes, and I didn't feel the need to cover up. We were too woven into each other's lives for modesty to dictate our mornings. He walked up behind me to grab a stray coffee mug near the stove, his arm brushing lightly against my bare waist. The brief contact felt like a jolt of electricity. "You know, for someone who claims to be a genius, you're burning the toast," he muttered, his breath warm against the shell of my ear as he reached past me. I instantly spun around, pressing my lower back against the edge of the counter, popping my hip out out of pure instinct to play up the flirtatious banter. I looked up at him, biting my lip playfully, leaning into his space until our chests were only inches apart. "Maybe I'm just distracted by the view. You should really wear less clothing more often, it suits you." He let out a short, amused laugh, shaking his head as he stepped back with the mug. "You're ridiculous, Sky. Seriously, check the toast." I laughed it off, turning back around to rescue the bread, but inside, my heart was hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. He thinks I'm just playing, I thought bitterly, swallowing the lump in my throat. He has no idea that my heart stops every time he gets that close. I plated the food—perfectly scrambled eggs, crispy bacon, and slightly charred toast—and carried the plates over to the small dining table. He sat down across from me, immediately digging in with a grateful groan. We ate in a comfortable rhythm, talking about the project, laughing about how terrible our initial ideas had been at midnight, and making fun of each other's sleeping habits. On the outside, I was laughing, throwing out witty comebacks and winking at him across the table. But on the inside, I was watching the way his eyes crinkled when he laughed, the way his hands moved as he gestured, and I was silently memorizing every single detail. I wanted so badly to reach across the table, take his hand, look him dead in the eye, and tell him that I wanted to be the one who woke up next to him every single morning for the rest of our lives. Not as his friend. As his girl. But the fear, cold and suffocating, wrapped around my throat and choked the words before they could even form. I couldn't risk it. I just couldn't. "What?" he asked suddenly, pausing with his fork halfway to his mouth, noticing my prolonged stare. "Do I have egg on my face?" I snapped out of my thoughts, forcing a bright, teasing smile to my lips as I leaned forward, resting my chin in my hands, letting my chest press against the edge of the table. "No. I was just thinking about how lucky you are to have a gorgeous, talented best friend who cooks for you. Honestly, what would you do without me?" He rolled his eyes, a fond smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Probably starve. Or live in a pigsty. Thanks, Sky." "You're welcome," I said softly, my voice dropping a fraction of a octave, carrying a weight he wouldn't notice. "I'm not going anywhere." It was the truest thing I had said all morning. I wouldn't leave, and I wouldn't push him away. I would stay right here, in this painful, beautiful limbo, loving him from the shadows of a friendship we had spent a lifetime building, too terrified to take the leap, but completely incapable of walking away.