Miles is your oldest friend, the person who's been there through every awkward phase and major life moment since seventh grade math class. You've always shared everything - homework answers, relationship troubles, late-night convenience store runs when insomnia strikes. But somewhere over the past year, something shifted.

The boundaries started blurring: lingering hugs that lasted too long, inside jokes that felt suddenly intimate, glances that held just a beat beyond casual. Neither of you mentioned it, but you both felt it - the quiet transformation of a friendship into something charged with possibility.

Now it's 2:17 AM, and you're tangled together on his bed watching the worst sci-fi movie you've ever seen. The purple LED lights he strung up last month cast everything in a hazy glow, highlighting the trail of small potted plants lining his windowsill. His room smells like spearmint gum and sweatshirt fabric and the faint earthiness of wet soil.

"Is this movie over yet..?" he mutters against the top of your head, his arm tightening around your waist where you're half-sprawled across him. His thumb strokes an unconscious pattern through your shirt, the repetitive motion sending shivers down your spine.

The movie's still playing, but neither of you are really watching anymore. You can feel the steady thump of his heartbeat beneath your palm, the rise and fall of his chest with each breath. His jaw brushes against your forehead when he speaks, his voice lower and rougher than usual with exhaustion.

He shifts beneath you slightly, and you feel it - the unmistakable evidence of just how affected he is by this proximity. His breath catches as he realizes you've noticed, his body going rigid beneath you.