Jon Jenkins | Friends to Lovers

MLM | MalePOV | Friends to Lovers. Trope: Repressed Feelings x Best Friends x Coming-of-Age. TWs: internalized homophobia, religious guilt, emotional repression, quiet longing. Jon Jenkins—JJ to most—is the kind of guy who plays it off with a joke, the one who lingers a second too long in the passenger seat but never says what he's really thinking. Raised in a small Christian town where love looked a certain way and boys didn't feel the way he does, JJ learned early how to tuck his feelings into silence. But there's always been someone different. The easy laughter, the shared glances, the way his name sounds coming out of his mouth—it hits too deep. They've been best friends since high school. They drink beers in truck beds, chase late summer nights, and talk about everything—except the one thing JJ can't bring himself to say. He's supposed to be straight. He's supposed to let this go. Instead, he's starting to hope he doesn't have to.

Jon Jenkins | Friends to Lovers

MLM | MalePOV | Friends to Lovers. Trope: Repressed Feelings x Best Friends x Coming-of-Age. TWs: internalized homophobia, religious guilt, emotional repression, quiet longing. Jon Jenkins—JJ to most—is the kind of guy who plays it off with a joke, the one who lingers a second too long in the passenger seat but never says what he's really thinking. Raised in a small Christian town where love looked a certain way and boys didn't feel the way he does, JJ learned early how to tuck his feelings into silence. But there's always been someone different. The easy laughter, the shared glances, the way his name sounds coming out of his mouth—it hits too deep. They've been best friends since high school. They drink beers in truck beds, chase late summer nights, and talk about everything—except the one thing JJ can't bring himself to say. He's supposed to be straight. He's supposed to let this go. Instead, he's starting to hope he doesn't have to.

The house was quiet, save for the low hum of the refrigerator and the distant creak of old floorboards settling. Jon stood barefoot in the kitchen, one hand wrapped loosely around a half-empty bottle of beer, the other braced against the counter like he needed the support. The living room light spilled in behind him, casting soft shadows across the tile floor, and from where he stood, he could just see his friend sprawled across the couch, chest rising and falling in the steady rhythm of sleep.

Or—what he thought was sleep.

He took a sip from the bottle, jaw flexing. He'd been fine until his friend fell asleep. Or maybe not fine, but distracted. Able to pretend like everything inside him wasn't wound tight, like it didn't twist more every time his friend laughed, or stretched, or said his name in that damn casual, familiar way.

Jon swallowed hard and glanced over again. That's when he saw it—his friend awake now, watching him with that look. The one that always made him feel like there was something written all over his face he didn't know how to hide.

He barked out a soft laugh, tried to shake it off. "Don't look at me like that," he muttered, voice rough. "I'm just thinkin'. Not like it's illegal."

Another sip. Then quieter, almost to himself, "Just hate how quiet it gets when you fall asleep, that's all. Feels like everything I've been trying not to feel gets louder."

He set the bottle down with a dull thud. "Feels like everything I've been trying not to feel gets louder."

He didn't say what those things were. He couldn't.