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LOGAN

When I first woke up this morning, I was half convinced last night was a dream. A hot-as-sin, absolutely-no-business-being-that-good dream where mystraightbest friend and I jerked each other off, moaning each other’s names, and he came when I told him to.

He came when I told him to!

I know I technically instigated it, but he wanted to come. I just told him he could do it in my bed beside me, and couldn’t resist joining in. Then, I unintentionally ran out of lube and offered a helpful hand. Literally.

And heaccepted!

I’ll never recover from that. Mark it down as the best thing that’s ever happened to me.

I know it wasn’t a dream, though, because the way he looked at me when I touched him is burned into my brain. And god, thesoundshe made. The real thing is nothing like the way he sounds for the mic—it’s so much better. I’d give anything to hear him moan like that again.Forme.Becauseof me.

I’ve had sex before with both men and women, but nothing has ever felt like this.Because none of them had been Ryder, my mind whispers, and I know it’s true.

He’s still asleep next to me, and I want to shake him awake and ask him to do it again. It felt so natural, like a completely normal extension of our alreadyprobablyco-dependent relationship. But, instead, I roll onto my side, prop my head on my hand, and watch him sleep for a moment. His face is relaxed and his lips are slightly parted, and god, I want to run my fingers through his wavy brown hair. I’ve always said Ryder is hot—not to him, of course—but I’ve thought it. And right now, he looks so peaceful and perfect. I’m thankful he’s asleep because I don’t know if I could bite my tongue if he weren’t. All the feelings I have for him would probably come tumbling out.

I don’t know what this means for us. We crossedtheline, the one I drew in the sand nearly a decade ago. The one that always reminded me: he’s your best friend. Yourstraightbest friend. That reminder has always protected me from heartbreak and false hope because when I didn’t allow myself to think about any possibility ofmore, it wasn’t a problem.

I’d only ever seen Ryder as my best friend.Or tried to, and it usually worked.

But now? After last night? That line didn’t just blur.

It snapped.

Is Ryder questioning his sexuality? Or was he just horny from work?

In my experience, straight guys don’t look at you the way he looked at me last night. But IknowRyder, and this doesn’t make sense for him. He’s never even expressed interest in wanting to experiment with guys, despite his career really selling it. He’s probably been exposed to everysexual experience two guys can have together, andstill, nothing.

I don’t know what comes next, and I don’t know where to go from here.

But I don’t want to go back to never touching his dick again.

I swallow hard, trying to ignore the way my chest tightens at the thought. Because yeah, last night had been incredible, but if he wakes up and freaks out—if he looks at me like I’m a mistake and what we did was some ‘oh shit’ moment he wishes he could erase...

I couldn’t handle that.

The last thing I want is to be the reason Ryder starts questioning everything about himself...only to end up resenting me for it. Even if that doesn’t seem like the Ryder I know.

My mind is ping-ponging through every possible scenario, and I can’t get it to shut off. I keep telling myself not to spiral—to wait, to see, to not assume the worst just because I’ve spent the last ten years preparing for rejection if I ever let my feelings surface. I need to do something to occupy my mind rather than staying trapped in this thought spiral.

Slowly, I sit up and get out of bed. My chest feels tight with everything I want to ask, but I let him sleep. I throw on a T-shirt and head for the kitchen, needing coffee and something to do with my hands while my brain eats itself alive with worst-case scenarios.

While I wait for the coffee to brew, I can’t help but glance over my shoulder every thirty seconds, half expecting him to walk out of the bedroom fully dressed with his packed bag in hand, ready to bolt, but he doesn’t. And when he finally makes his way into the kitchen, he’s wearing nothing but his boxer briefs andmyT-shirt as he reaches for a mug that says, ‘When life gives you curves, flaunt them.’He chuckles to himself as he fills it, and I grip my mug a little tighter, awaiting what’s going to happen.

He seems like his usual self, and when he finishes doctoring his coffee, he turns around and smiles at me like nothing’s changed. He looks so good standing there with his bedhead and a crease from the pillow against his left cheek that I desperately want to smooth out.

“Morning,” he says casually.

I stare at him for a second before speaking. “Morning, how’re you feeling today?”

His eyes flick to mine, and something unreadable flashes across his face before he lets out a soft chuckle. “Good,” he says.

Good?That’s it? That’s all he has to say? He’s gotta be fucking with me. Usually, his laid-back attitude helps me relax, but right now it’s like he’s throwing a match on my already anxious thoughts just to watch them explode. My face must give away my internal thoughts because he laughs again before opening his mouth.

“If you’re asking about last night,” he says, tilting his mug toward me, “I’ve got a better question: why the hell haven’t we done that before?”

My face immediately burns at that question, because of all the things I thought would come out of his mouth this morning, that onenevercrossed my mind.