Dani technically had caffeine. A can of something neon green, tasting vaguely of lime and regret, sat half-empty on his desk, sweating onto a coaster. But "ran out of coffee" sounded so much more... normal. Domestic, even. Like something a guy who wasn't perpetually orbiting his best friend in a state of low-grade panic might say.

Besides, he needed an excuse. Yesterday, a monstrosity of white roses had materialized on your doorstep. Fluffy, ostentatious things. Not his style. More importantly, not from him. His first, gut reaction—primal and ugly—was to yeet the entire vase off your balcony under the cover of darkness. Accidents happen, he'd reasoned fleetingly, imagining the satisfying crunch. But then the image of your face, possibly lit up with genuine, non-Dani-related joy over the stupid flowers, had punched him square in the chest. He couldn't. Depriving you of happiness felt like kicking a puppy. His puppy. Metaphorically speaking. Obviously.

So, recon mission it was. Operation: Who The Hell Dares Send You Flowers?

He let himself into your apartment using the spare key you'd given him years ago. The keychain attached—a slightly chewed-up, faded cartoon character you'd won at an arcade—felt warm in his palm. The irony wasn't lost on him. He had the key to your apartment, a physical manifestation of trust and closeness, but the key to your heart felt like it was locked in a damn vault guarded by dragons and his own spectacular inability to function like a normal human being around you.

"Hey, it's me!" he called out, his voice trying for casual and probably landing somewhere near 'potentially constipated'. "Came for coffee – I'm empty."

Your apartment smelled like... you. That faint, comforting blend of your shampoo, some vanilla thing you sprayed, and just... you. It was home, more than his own place next door ever felt. The usual 'creative chaos' reigned—a throw blanket askew on the sofa, a stack of books threatening to topple, a mug left precariously close to the edge of the coffee table. He knew where every single misplaced item belonged, catalogued meticulously in the 'your stuff' section of his brain, right next to 'gaming strats' and 'memes'. God, I'm a freak, the thought flickered, sharp and unwelcome. A stalker-level idiot who felt like his entire carefully constructed world—his precarious online income, his gym routine (started for you, naturally), his sanity—would just implode if you weren't... there.

He padded towards your bedroom door, rapping lightly with his knuckles. A formality, really. "Hey, what are you—"

And then the words just died. Evaporated. Gone.

Oh.

Oh, no.

You were standing in front of your mirror, adjusting something, and what you were wearing... Sweet merciful gaming gods, why. Why inflict this particular brand of torture on poor, unsuspecting Dani? It was a dress. Or maybe a skirt and top? Whatever it was, it was short. Dangerously, devastatingly short. His eyes locked onto your knees—smooth, perfect knees—and had to physically wrench themselves upwards, dragging across the expanse of your thighs, the curve of your hips, the soft fabric clinging in ways that made his throat tighten. He wanted to be that fabric. He wanted to trace the lines of it, learn the feel of it against your skin. His skin.

He swallowed, a dry, rasping sound in the sudden silence. The carefully constructed wall of 'casual coffee borrower' crumbled into dust.

"Going somewhere?" The question croaked out, rough and tight. Please say no. Please say you're just trying on outfits for fun. Please say you spilled something on your PJs. But he knew. He knew those shoes kicked off near the door – the strappy ones. And he caught the faint, familiar scent wafting towards him – the perfume he had bought you for your birthday last year, the one that smelled like starlight and trouble. This wasn't a 'just because' outfit. This was the full goddamn Date Night Loadout.

A date.

A fucking date.

Not. With. Him.

Of course, not with you, you absolute fucking moron. The voice in his head was back, sneering and vicious. You're the designated best friend. The shoulder to cry on. The tech support. The guy who gets the 'lol ur funny' texts while some other dude gets... this.

Something sharp and hot twisted low in his gut, right below his ribs, threatening to crack them open. Coward. The word echoed. You're going to stand here, choking on your own pathetic pining, and watch her walk out that door to meet someone else. Someone brave enough. Someone who isn't Dani. Dani, who'll go back to his apartment and get aggressively attached to his computer chair until 4 AM, farming virtual gold that suddenly feels utterly worthless.

He forced his lips to move, forcing a smile that felt like stretching cold plastic. "You look great," he managed, the compliment tasting like acid in his mouth. His own voice sounded weirdly distant, like it was coming from the other side of the room. He cleared his throat again, desperate to anchor himself back to reality, back to the flimsy pretext that brought him here.

"Where's the coffee?"