Page 2 of Ripe & Ready (Friction Fiction #1)

Instead, I shrug. “We’re best friends.” Like that explains everything. Like that’s not a loaded, landmine-filled term I’ve been hiding behind for years.

“Yeah,” he says, walking past me. “But you’re here. Showing up is not just a best friend thing. Most people don’t do that. Hell, outside of you and my parents, no one really shows up for me.”

He takes a running leap and belly-flops onto the bed. Arms and legs spread wide, he immediately starts making blanket angels, giggling like an idiot, the mosquito net billowing slightly from the gust of his landing.

I stand there, watching him roll around in the covers like he’s trying to imprint on the duvet, and wonder how does he do that? How does he drop something so heavy and then laugh like his heart isn’t cracked right down the middle?

“That’s not true,” I say, too fast. Too defensive.

He finally stops rolling and props himself up on one elbow. “It is. But it’s fine. I don’t ask for much, so... whatever. I dated Steven for like four years and he would’ve never come out here with me.”

Steven. The walking red flag. Derek’s emotionally vacant, passive-aggressive ex who once told me my music taste was “intellectually lazy.” Steven, who always acted like Derek was too much and not enough all at once. Steven, who, let’s be honest, never deserved him.

I bite my tongue. Because the list of things I want to say about Steven is long, petty, and starts with ‘you shouldn’t have had to ask.’

I want to tell him how I feel. About Steven. About him. About us. I really do. And if I were a stronger man, this trip would be the moment. But I can’t do that. Not yet.

So I sit right on the edge of the bed staring at the mosquito net as though it’s the most fascinating thing I’ve ever seen, trying so hard not to imagine what it would feel like if he showed up for me the way I always show up for him. Like what if he looked at me one day and just got it?

Nope. Nope. Shut it down.

I lock it all up. Every feeling, every maybe, every dumb, aching daydream that has no business existing in this jungle hut or in my brain at all, and I turn back to Derek.

He’s lying on his stomach. Legs kicking behind him, chin in his hands, hair all tousled and sun-kissed and obnoxiously perfect. And his eyes? Fully on me.

Dangerously cute behavior.

I’m not, like… hot. Not in the way Derek is.

All golden and athletic. I’m more... soft edges and unfortunate timing.

Brown hair that does whatever it wants, a jawline that only shows up in good lighting, eyes that don't know whether they're brown or green, and a face people mostly describe as “approachable,” which feels like the polite way of saying “not threatening.”

I dress like someone who always packs an extra hoodie just in case, and I’ve never quite figured out what to do with my hands in photos.

But my smile’s decent, when it’s real. And my eyes do this crinkle thing when I’m laughing which Derek says is his favorite. So... maybe I’m not a total lost cause.

But Derek… Derek is hot-hot. Like, CW hot. Like someone-who-should-be-shirtless-in-every-scene hot. It’s unacceptable. Arrestable, honestly

“How early do we have to be up?” I ask, mostly to remind myself that I’m here to see gorillas. Not crash out at the sight of him stretched out on that hotel bed.

“Dawn!” he says, eyes going wide as though that’s some fun fact and not a direct threat to my well-being.

“Dawn?!?” I groan, already mourning my sleep.

“IT’S WORTH IT!” he shouts, immediately bouncing to his knees. “We’re gonna see gorillas, Andy! Gorillas! In a habitat basically untouched by humans. Barely anybody comes here. This is real, wild nature shit. Isn’t that cool?! Please say it’s cool.”

I roll my eyes, but my lips twitch. “It’s cool.”

“Glad we agree,” he says, baring his teeth in that wicked little smile before flopping back down onto the bed.

“You’re the only person I know who gets this excited about gorillas,” I say, watching him practically glow.

“They’re amazing,” he shoots back instantly, his voice full of that soft, wild-eyed wonder he gets when he talks about the natural world.

It reminds me so much of that kid with purple board shorts and too much sunscreen, except now he’s got a degree and biceps.

“I mean… we evolved from primates. They’re like our cousins and they’re so smart.

They have these people hands, and these people expressions, and they can learn sign language and recognize themselves in mirrors. Like… come on. That’s exciting.”

He pauses for a second. Not in a dramatic “wait for it” kind of way. Something’s clicking in his head. Then, softer, he goes, “And they love deeply.”

The way he says it is not like some casual animal trivia. It means something to him. That’s the part that really gets him, the reason he’s here, sweating through his shirt in the middle of the African jungle.

His gaze pins me with his quiet, steady kind of truth in his eyes and all coherent thought exits the building. Because what the hell am I supposed to do with that?

“People think they’re ferocious, but they’re peaceful. Gentle, even. They live in tight family groups. They form these deep, lasting bonds… like, real relationships. Protective. Loyal. It’s... beautiful.”

I stand there, arms awkward at my sides, taking in the full force of his excitement. He’s still sprawled across the bed barefoot and radiant and full of heart and I’m over here trying not to let my brain connect this bed with this boy and my unrelenting, soul-crushing love.

Spoiler alert: I fail. I fail so hard it echoes.