“Do you want to come in for some coffee?” My question surprises me just as much as it seems to surprise him.

He straightens, squaring his shoulders and turning to me, his eyebrows raised as he meets my eyes. I stare at him, waiting for a response, and when he moves to unfasten his seat belt, nodding once, my shoulders sag as I breathe a sigh of relief because I really need him right now.

***

I can’t even begin to count the number of times Harley Shaw has been inside my house over the years. Thousands, probably. When we were kids, he and Nash were forever hanging around, rifling through the pantry, raiding the fridge and drinking straight out of the juice carton. But this is the first time Harley’s been in my house when it’s ever felt different. Suddenly, with my confusing, newfound feelings for him, his presence in my home is overwhelming, like he’s almost too big for the small space. As we stand in the kitchen across the island from one another, I can hear every one of his breaths, feel his eyes on me as I idly stir the two mugs of hot tea. And it’s at that precise moment I realize I need something a lot stronger than chamomile tea.

“Actually,” I say, turning and tipping the contents of both mugs into the sink. “Can you please get me that bottle of Johnnie Walker from on top of the fridge?”

“Blue label?” Harley chuckles from behind me. “Livin’ large, Murph?”

I place two glasses onto the counter, rolling my eyes at him. “It’s the only one that doesn’t give me heartburn.”

Harley smirks, pouring us each a nip of liquor before replacing the cork in the bottle. “Cheers.” He smiles, holding his glass in the air.

I nod in return, meeting his eyes momentarily before he tilts his head back and takes a generous sip of the scotch whiskey. His eyelashes flutter closed as he hums in appreciation, and the sound alone elicits goose bumps to prick all over my skin. It takes all I have not to outwardly swoon as I sip my own shot, forcing myself to look away. I can’t stand to see the look of satisfaction on his face any longer. So, instead, I focus down at the small tiles on the countertop as if they’re the most fascinating thing I’ve ever seen.

What am I doing? I don’t actually know. I’ve never considered Harley this way. He’s never had this effect on me. Where Nash was always the love of my life, Harley was the annoying background noise I just couldn’t seem to turn off. He was that insolent older-brother type who once ripped a whole heap of pages from my diary when I used to write Justin Timberlake fan fiction in freshman year. He showed everyone at school, and all his jock football buddies made fun of me for weeks.

One time in sophomore year, after the school had installed vending machines in the boys’ bathroom, he chased me through the halls laughing like a lunatic with a flapping condom flailing in the air. In fact, for most of my teenage life Harley Shaw was been the bane of my existence, until he became the best friend I never knew I needed when I had no one else. And now, all I can imagine is what his calloused finger might feel like brushing against the curve where my shoulder meets my neck. What his lips might be capable of doing to me with just one kiss.