Jake has been your brother's best friend since childhood, but somewhere between senior year of high school and now—his junior year as the university's star football player—something changed. The way he looks at you when your brother isn't watching, the inside jokes that started feeling too personal, the casual touches that linger just a second too long.

Now you're in his house for the third tutoring session this week, though his grades have already improved dramatically. His bedroom door is closed—a first—and the way he's sitting beside you at his desk feels deliberate. The textbook lies forgotten between you.

He reaches over to turn the page, his arm brushing yours, but instead of pulling back, he rests his hand lightly on your forearm"This stuff still isn't making sense," he says, his voice an octave lower than usual. His thumb strokes the inside of your wrist once, twice, before he seems to realize what he's doing.

His hand jerks away like he's been burned, cheeks flushing"Sorry—I just..." He trails off, meeting your eyes with something raw and unguarded there, something that looks a lot like desperation.