Jasmine's voice cut through the low hum of the apartment, sharp and insistent. "I'm just saying, if we're doing this every week, we need a rotation. I can't be the only one with taste."

"You call that taste? You played the same song three times last week." Jessica's reply came from somewhere near the kitchen counter, where she'd stationed herself with a bottle of half-empty soda.

"Because you kept interrupting it."

"I interrupted it once."

"Twice."

Riley heard them, but the words didn't land. They drifted past, background texture, like the click of the ceiling fan or the distant hum of traffic through the closed window. What landed was the weight on his chest.

Inde's hand.

Flat against his sternum, fingers spread wide, her palm warm through the thin cotton of his shirt. She hadn't looked at him when she'd placed it there. Hadn't said anything. Just shifted, slightly, during a lull in the conversation, and let her hand come to rest on him like it belonged there.

He stopped breathing.

Not consciously. His body made the decision before his brain caught up—lungs locked, ribs frozen, every muscle held in a kind of suspended disbelief. She was touching him. Not holding his hand, which they'd done, which felt safe and mutual and easy. This was different. This was her palm against his chest, her fingers splayed over his heartbeat, and he could feel the exact shape of each fingertip through the fabric.

She didn't look at him.

That was what undid him. She kept her gaze forward, toward the argument unfolding by the stereo, her dark eyes tracking Jasmine's animated gestures. Her face gave nothing away. But her hand stayed, steady and deliberate, and Riley realized she was waiting.

Waiting to see if he'd pull away.

The thought cracked through him like light through a window. She was testing him. Not maliciously—not even consciously, maybe. But she'd made a move, a quiet claim in the middle of noise and laughter and the clatter of Natalie stacking plastic cups in the kitchen, and now she was giving him room to reject it.

He didn't.

Couldn't. The idea of moving her hand, of shifting even an inch away, felt like a crime he hadn't committed yet but somehow knew the shape of. He stayed still. Deliberately still. Let his lungs ease back into a rhythm that didn't scream panic, let his shoulders settle against the worn carpet fibers beneath him.

The rug scratched at his knees through his jeans. The single lamp in the corner threw long shadows across the dusty floorboards, stretching the shapes of his friends into distorted giants on the wall. Jasmine's shadow-arm waved wildly as she made her point. Jessica's shadow-self leaned against an invisible counter, arms crossed.

And Inde's shadow-hand, pressed against the shadow of his chest, didn't move.

His heart was going to give him away. He could feel it, the thud-thud-thud against his ribs, against the underside of her palm. There was no way she couldn't feel it. No way she didn't know what she was doing to him. Her hand was right there, pressed against the place where his pulse lived, and if she was paying even half attention, she knew.

He felt heat creep up his neck. Felt it spread across his cheeks, his ears, the tips of his ears burning like he'd been caught doing something he shouldn't. And still she didn't look at him.

Natalie emerged from the kitchen, a stack of cups balanced in her hands, her braids swaying as she crossed to the low coffee table. "Okay, I found more cups. Does anyone actually want water, or are we just pretending to be responsible?"

"I'll take one," Ella said, her voice soft from the armchair where she'd curled up, phone in hand, knees tucked to her chest. She looked up, ice-blue eyes catching the lamplight, and smiled a small smile that barely reached her cheeks.

Natalie set a cup on the table in front of her. "One water, delivered. You're welcome."

"Thank you."

The exchange was ordinary. Domestic, almost. And it happened three feet away from Riley while Inde's hand burned a hole through his chest.

Jasmine had apparently won whatever argument she'd been having with Jessica, because the music shifted—something with a heavier bass line, something that made the floorboards vibrate faintly through the rug. She pumped her fist in victory and dropped onto the carpet beside Riley, close enough that her shoulder brushed his.

"Okay, new rule," she announced. "No skipping songs until they've played for at least thirty seconds. I'm tired of getting two bars in before someone—" she pointed at Jessica without looking "—yells 'next.'"

"It was a bad song."

"It was a great song."

"It was overplayed."

"It was a classic."

Riley heard them. He even smiled, a faint curve of his mouth that might have passed for amusement. But his attention was a needle, and it kept finding the same groove: the weight on his chest, the warmth of Inde's hand, the way she hadn't moved and neither had he.

Inde's thumb moved.

A single stroke, barely a centimeter, along the line of his sternum. An absent gesture, maybe unconscious, like she was tracing the shape of him through his shirt. Riley's breath caught, a sharp hitch that he tried to disguise as a cough. It came out strangled.

Jasmine looked at him. "You good, Tall?"

"Fine." His voice cracked. He cleared his throat. "Fine. Just—swallowed wrong."

"You weren't drinking anything."

"I swallowed air."

Jasmine's eyes narrowed, but she let it go, turning back to her phone to queue the next song. Riley exhaled slowly, carefully, and tried to remember how a normal person sat on a floor.

Inde shifted beside him. Not away—closer. Her thigh pressed against his, a solid warmth through the denim of her jeans. She still wasn't looking at him. Still watching the room with that quiet, observant stillness that he'd noticed the first time they'd talked, the way she took in everything without giving anything away.

But her hand pressed deeper into his chest. A fraction more weight. A fraction more claim.

His breath caught again.

The ceiling fan clicked its slow rotation overhead. The lamp cast a pool of yellow light that didn't quite reach them, leaving them in the edge of shadow where the light faded into dark. The music pulsed, low and steady, and Jasmine was talking about something—a party next weekend, someone's cousin who knew a guy who could get them a keg—but the words dissolved before they reached him.

All he knew was the weight on his chest. The warmth. The tiny, devastating movement of her thumb, tracing a line along his sternum like she was memorizing him.

He didn't move.

Didn't want to. The thought crossed his mind, unbidden and startling: I could stay here forever. Right here, on this worn carpet with the fibers scratching his knees, with the scent of stale pizza and warm skin thick in the air, with Inde's hand on his chest and her thigh against his and the whole world reduced to the small, perfect space between them.

He didn't pull away.

He leaned in.

Barely. An inch, maybe less. But his shoulder pressed closer to hers, his arm brushing hers where it rested on the floor, and he felt her respond—a subtle shift, a softening, like she'd been braced for him to retreat and now, finally, could relax.

Her hand flattened against his chest. Full palm, full weight, her fingers curling slightly at the edges, and Riley felt something unlock in his chest that he hadn't known was locked.

"Okay, new plan," Jasmine announced, clapping her hands together. "I'm starving. Who wants food?"

A chorus of responses—Jessica's enthusiastic "yes," Natalie's more measured "I could eat," Ella's quiet "sure." Jasmine was already on her feet, pulling her phone out, rattling off options: pizza again, or maybe Chinese, there was that place on Fourth that delivered until two.

Riley didn't answer. Couldn't. His voice was somewhere in his throat, buried under the weight of Inde's hand and the thundering of his heart.

Inde's fingers pressed deeper. A fraction more weight. A fraction more claim.

And Riley's breath caught—a sharp, audible hitch that he couldn't disguise this time—but he still didn't move. Couldn't. The moment held, unbroken, suspended in the yellow lamplight and the bass thrum of the music and the distant clatter of Jasmine arguing with Jessica about toppings.

Natalie laughed at something Ella said. The sound was warm, easy, the kind of laugh that filled a room without demanding attention.

And Inde's hand stayed on Riley's chest, a quiet, steady pressure, like she was telling him something she didn't have words for yet.

He thought maybe he understood.

Jasmine was already on her phone, scrolling through delivery options, her free hand gesturing broadly as she narrated her findings. "Okay, so there's the pizza place, obviously, but there's also that Thai place on Elm that does those spring rolls—the ones with the peanut sauce—"

"Too far," Jessica said. "They take forever."

"They take twenty minutes."

"They took forty-five minutes last time."

"That was a Friday."

Riley heard them the way he heard the ceiling fan—steady, present, but not something he had to attend to. The argument was a backdrop, a texture, something that filled the space around the real thing, which was Inde's hand on his chest and the way the room had narrowed to the exact circumference of her palm.

He watched her profile in the lamplight. The curve of her jaw, the way her ponytail fell over one shoulder, the slight furrow between her brows as she tracked Jasmine's movements across the room. She looked calm. Composed. Like she wasn't currently pressing her hand to his chest like she was checking that he was real.

But her thumb moved again. Another slow stroke along his sternum, and this time he felt it differently—not an accident, not an absent gesture. Deliberate. A question asked in pressure and warmth.

He didn't have an answer. Not in words. But his hand, the one resting on the carpet beside him, shifted. His pinky brushed against hers. A whisper of contact, barely there, but he felt her pause. Felt the tiny stillness that ran through her body at the touch.

She didn't pull away.

Neither did he.

Natalie settled onto the floor across from them, cross-legged, a cup of water in her hands. She took a sip, watching them over the rim with an expression that was too knowing for comfort. Riley felt heat creep up his neck again, but he didn't drop his gaze. Didn't move his hand.

"So," Natalie said, setting the cup down. "Food."

"Food," Jasmine confirmed, still scrolling. "I'm thinking pizza. Classic. Reliable."

"We just had pizza." Jessica's voice carried a note of complaint.

"And?"

"And I want something different."

"Different like what?"

"I don't know. Something with—" Jessica waved her hand vaguely "—flavor."

Jasmine looked up, deadpan. "You just said pizza doesn't have flavor."

"I said pizza is predictable."

"Same thing."

Riley felt the corner of his mouth twitch. A smile, threatening to break through the tension coiled in his chest. He looked at Inde, and for a split second, their eyes met—a flicker of shared amusement, a recognition that this was ridiculous and wonderful and exactly where they were supposed to be.

Then she looked away, back toward the argument, but her hand pressed deeper into his chest. A fraction more weight. A fraction more claim.

His breath caught. The smile faded into something rawer, something he didn't have a name for.

The song changed again—something slower, something with a guitar riff that cut through the bass. Ella looked up from her phone, her ice-blue eyes tracking the ceiling like she was placing the melody. "I like this one," she said, quiet enough that Riley almost missed it.

"Me too," Natalie said.

The room settled into a kind of peace. Jasmine stopped scrolling, letting the song play. Jessica leaned against the counter, her chin-length bob falling forward as she closed her eyes. The clatter of the kitchen had faded; the only sounds were the music and the soft hum of the refrigerator and the distant drone of a car passing somewhere outside.

And Inde's hand on his chest. Steady. Warm. Real.

Riley let himself breathe. Let himself feel the weight of her palm, the pressure of her fingers, the way her thumb had stilled but hadn't lifted. He thought about the first time he'd seen her—across a crowded room, her dark eyes catching his, a moment so brief he'd almost convinced himself he'd imagined it. He hadn't. He knew that now.

He turned his hand over, palm up, an invitation. He didn't look at her. Didn't say anything. Just offered his hand, open and waiting, and let her decide.

The silence stretched. A single rotation of the ceiling fan. A beat of the song.

Then her fingers found his. Slid between them, interlaced, her palm pressing against his. She squeezed, once, a quick pressure that said more than words could.

Riley squeezed back.

And the moment held, unbroken, as the argument behind them spiked into laughter—Jasmine's bright and loud, Jessica's reluctant but genuine, Natalie's warm and easy, Ella's soft and surprised. The room filled with sound, with life, with the mess of people who had somehow become his people.

But all Riley felt was the weight of Inde's hand in his, and the quiet certainty that he didn't need to be anywhere else.

Jasmine's phone screen glowed as she scrolled, her thumb moving in quick, decisive swipes. "Okay, I'm calling it. Pizza wins by default because nobody can agree on anything else."

"I suggested Thai," Jessica said, her voice carrying that edge of theatrical injury she deployed when she wasn't actually upset. "That's not 'nothing else.' That's a specific suggestion."

"Which you then undermined by complaining about delivery times."

"Because it's relevant."

"It's not relevant if you're hungry now."

Riley listened, the words washing over him like warm water. He was still holding Inde's hand. Still feeling the press of her fingers interlaced with his, the way her thumb rested against the side of his hand, a small point of contact that somehow held the weight of the whole night.

He should say something. Contribute to the decision. That was what people did in groups, right? They offered opinions, made choices, participated in the small democracy of takeout orders.

The thought made his chest tighten.

But Inde's hand was in his. And she hadn't let go.

"Riley?" Natalie's voice, soft but direct. He looked up. She was watching him from across the floor, her braids shifting as she tilted her head. "You've been quiet. What do you want?"

The question landed differently than she'd probably intended. Riley felt heat creep up his neck, felt the familiar urge to deflect, to say whatever everyone else wants, to disappear into agreement.

Then Inde's thumb pressed against his hand. A small pressure. A reminder.

He cleared his throat. "Pizza's fine." The words came out rougher than he'd expected. "But—" He stopped. Swallowed. "The one with the—the white sauce. And spinach. That place on Fourth does it."

The room went quiet for half a beat.

Jasmine's eyebrows rose. "The white sauce pizza? Tall, I didn't know you had opinions."

He felt his face burn. "I mean—it's just—I've had it before. It's good."

"No, no, I respect it." Jasmine was already typing. "White sauce spinach pizza. That's a choice. That's a man who knows what he wants."

Inde's hand squeezed his. A quick pressure, there and gone. He glanced at her, and she was looking at him—really looking, her dark eyes warm in the low light, a small smile playing at the corner of her mouth.

He didn't know what to do with that look. Didn't know how to hold it without breaking something. So he looked back at his lap, at their interlaced hands, at the way her fingers fit between his like they'd been made for that exact space.

"White sauce pizza," Jessica repeated, a note of grudging approval in her voice. "Okay. I can get behind that."

"See?" Jasmine said. "Compromise. That's what I bring to this group."

"You brought nothing. Riley brought the compromise."

"I brought the structure that allowed Riley's compromise to emerge."

Natalie laughed, a low, warm sound. "You're both insufferable."

"Thank you," Jasmine and Jessica said in unison, then looked at each other with identical expressions of offended surprise.

Ella smiled into her phone, her shoulders shaking with quiet laughter. "I like the white sauce one too," she said, so softly Riley almost missed it.

He looked at her, and she met his eyes for a fraction of a second before looking away, her cheeks flushing. It was the most she'd said all night that wasn't a one-word answer.

"See?" Jasmine said, triumphant. "The shy ones always have the best taste. They're not busy talking, they're paying attention."

Jessica snorted. "You just want to claim credit for Riley's opinion."

"I'm claiming credit for creating the environment in which his opinion could be expressed."

"That's not a thing."

"It's absolutely a thing."

Riley felt the corner of his mouth lift. The argument was familiar, comfortable, the kind of bickering that came from people who actually liked each other. He'd grown up an only child, had spent most of his life in the quiet spaces between other people's connections, watching from the outside. This—the noise, the chaos, the way Jasmine and Jessica could go from mock-arguing to laughing in the span of a breath—still felt like something he was borrowing, waiting to be asked to give back.

But Inde's hand was in his. And nobody was asking him to leave.

Jasmine placed the order with a flourish, rattling off the address and the special instructions—extra napkins, please, and could they throw in a few of those little containers of ranch—while Jessica wandered into the kitchen to dig through the fridge for drinks. Natalie stretched her arms over her head, her spine cracking audibly, and let out a satisfied sigh.

"I'm going to need to go for a run tomorrow," she said. "I've been sitting on this floor for two hours."

"That's your own fault," Jasmine said, pocketing her phone. "There's a couch."

"The floor is cozier."

"The floor is dirty."

"It's Riley's floor. He's clean."

Riley blinked. "I—yeah, I vacuumed yesterday."

Natalie smiled at him, warm and easy. "See? Host with the most."

He didn't know what to do with that either. So he just nodded, a small, awkward dip of his chin, and felt Inde's thumb move against his hand again. A stroke. A reassurance. A quiet you're doing fine in a language that didn't need words.

Jessica emerged from the kitchen with an armful of cans—soda, a couple of seltzers, something that looked like a fancy lemonade. "We're running low on options. Someone should go shopping."

"You're someone," Jasmine said.

"I'm someone who's busy."

"We're all busy. That's not an excuse."

"It's an explanation."

Jessica distributed the cans with the practiced ease of someone who'd done it a hundred times. She handed one to Natalie, one to Ella, tossed one to Jasmine—who caught it without looking—and then paused in front of Riley and Inde.

Her eyes flicked down to their hands. Just for a second. Then back up, her face carefully neutral.

"Soda?" she offered, holding out a can.

Riley's throat was dry. "Yeah. Thanks."

He reached for it with his free hand, and the motion pulled slightly at his shoulder, reminding him of the exact geometry of where he was sitting, how close Inde was, how their bodies had settled into a shape that felt natural and terrifying in equal measure.

Jessica handed a second can to Inde. "And for you."

Inde took it. "Thanks."

Jessica held her gaze for a moment longer than necessary. Then she nodded, a tiny movement that could have meant anything, and retreated to her spot by the counter.

The song changed again. Something with a slower tempo, a woman's voice layered over a simple guitar progression. Ella looked up from her phone, her eyes tracking the ceiling like she was placing the melody. "I know this one," she said, almost to herself.

Natalie hummed along, off-key but unbothered. Jasmine tapped her fingers against her knee, matching the rhythm. The room settled into something quieter, the earlier chaos softening into the easy lull of people who didn't need to fill every silence.

Riley's heart was still beating too fast. He could feel it in his chest, a steady drum that seemed too loud for the space he occupied. But Inde's hand was in his, warm and solid, and the rhythm of her breathing was slow, even, unhurried.

He tried to match it. In. Out. In. Out.

It didn't quite work. But it got closer.

"Twenty minutes," Jasmine announced, glancing at her phone. "That's what the app said."

"They always say twenty minutes," Jessica said. "It's never twenty minutes."

"It was twenty minutes last time."

"It was thirty-five."

"That was a different place."

"Pizza places are all the same."

Jasmine looked at her with an expression of profound betrayal. "I'm going to pretend you didn't say that."

Riley felt Inde shift beside him. Not much—a small adjustment, her shoulder pressing more firmly against his. He glanced at her, and she was watching the argument with a faint, almost imperceptible smile. Like she was enjoying it. Like she was storing it away, the way some people collected photographs or ticket stubs, a memory she wanted to keep.

He wondered if she did that with him. If she stored away the moments when he spoke, when he made a choice, when he said something that surprised even himself.

The thought made his chest ache in a way he didn't have a name for.

"So," Natalie said, breaking the comfortable silence. "Riley."

He tensed. "Yeah?"

"You survived your first official game night as a—" she paused, her eyes flicking between him and Inde, a knowing glint in her gaze "—as a host. How are we feeling?"

The question was innocent. Or at least, it sounded innocent. But there was something in her tone, a thread of mischief that made Riley suspect she knew exactly what she was doing.

He cleared his throat. "Good. I feel good."

"Good enough to do it again next week?"

He thought about it. The noise, the chaos, the way Jasmine and Jessica filled every room with their arguments. The way Natalie watched everything with quiet, knowing eyes. The way Ella barely spoke but somehow made the space feel complete just by being in it.

And Inde. Her hand in his. Her shoulder against his. The way she'd pressed her palm to his chest earlier, claiming him in a language he was still learning to read.

"Yeah," he said, and his voice came out steadier than he'd expected. "I think I am."

Natalie smiled. It was a small smile, but it reached her eyes. "Good."

Inde's hand squeezed his again. Another quick pressure, another silent message. He squeezed back, and he felt her exhale, a soft release of breath that might have been relief.

The music played on. The lamp cast its yellow glow across the room. Somewhere outside, a car passed, its headlights sweeping across the window before fading into the night.

And Riley sat on the worn carpet of his apartment, holding Inde's hand, surrounded by people who had somehow become his people, and let himself believe that this was real.

That he got to stay.

Jasmine's phone buzzed against the coffee table, a sharp vibration that cut through the softening music. She grabbed it, squinted at the screen, and grinned. "Ten minutes. The app says ten minutes."

"They always say ten minutes when it's actually twenty," Jessica said, but she was already pushing off from the counter, stretching her arms above her head. Her shirt rode up, revealing a strip of toned stomach, and Riley looked away automatically, his gaze landing on Inde's profile instead.

Inde was watching Jessica too, but there was nothing awkward in her expression. Just quiet observation, the way she watched everything—like she was cataloging the world for later, filing away details most people missed.

"I'm going to grab plates," Natalie said, already halfway to the kitchen. "Riley, where do you keep them?"

"Top shelf above the sink." He started to rise, the automatic impulse of a host who'd spent his life making himself useful. "I can—"

"Stay." Natalie's voice was firm but warm. "I'll find them."

He settled back down, the motion pulling him closer to Inde, his shoulder brushing hers. She didn't move away. Didn't give him more room. Just adjusted, a slight shift that let them fit together more naturally, her hand still in his, her thigh warm against his through the denim.

He heard Natalie open the cabinet, heard the soft clink of ceramic as she pulled down plates. Jessica was saying something about napkins, about how they always forgot napkins, and Jasmine was already rifling through the takeout menu drawer Riley kept by the door.

"You have so many menus," Jasmine said, her voice muffled by the drawer's contents. "Do you actually order from all of these?"

"Most of them." He paused. "Some of them are from the previous tenant."

"You kept the previous tenant's menus?"

"They were already there."

Jasmine looked up, a crumpled menu for a Chinese place in her hand, her expression caught between amusement and disbelief. "That's the most Riley thing I've ever heard."

He felt his face heat. "I meant to throw them out."

"Sure you did."

Inde's thumb moved against his hand, a slow, reassuring stroke. He glanced at her, and she was looking at Jasmine with that faint, almost imperceptible smile. Like she was enjoying watching someone else tease him. Like she was storing it away, another memory to keep.

Ella unfolded herself from the armchair, her movements slow and deliberate, like she was giving herself time to decide whether she actually wanted to stand. She stretched, her spine cracking audibly, and Riley caught a glimpse of the lean muscle in her shoulders, the kind of definition that came from years of practice and competition.

"I can help," she said, her voice soft, almost hesitant. "With the—the plates. Or whatever."

Natalie emerged from the kitchen, a stack of plates balanced in one hand. "I've got it covered. But you can grab the cups if you want."

Ella nodded, a quick, almost birdlike motion, and slipped into the kitchen. The sound of cabinets opening and closing filled the small space, punctuated by the clink of plastic cups being stacked.

Riley watched them move around his apartment—Natalie setting plates on the coffee table, Ella arranging cups in a neat row, Jasmine still rifling through the menu drawer like she was looking for buried treasure. His apartment. His space. And it was full of people, full of noise, full of life in a way it hadn't been since he'd moved in.

He'd spent so many nights here alone. Eating takeout on the couch, watching shows he didn't care about, filling the silence with background noise that never quite masked the emptiness. He'd told himself he liked it that way. That he didn't need the chaos, the mess, the effort of other people.

He'd been wrong.

Inde's hand shifted in his, her fingers tightening for a moment before relaxing. He looked at her, and she was watching him, her dark eyes steady in the low light.

"You okay?" she asked, quiet enough that only he could hear.

He nodded. "Yeah. I'm—" He stopped, searching for the word. "I'm good."

She held his gaze for a moment longer, then looked away, but her hand stayed in his, warm and solid and real.

Jessica appeared in front of them, holding out a stack of napkins. "Here. For the inevitable grease-related disasters."

Riley took them with his free hand. "Thanks."

"Don't thank me yet. You haven't seen how Jasmine eats pizza."

"I eat pizza like a normal person." Jasmine's voice came from the direction of the menu drawer, still muffled but indignant.

"You eat pizza like you're competing in a speed-eating contest."

"That's called enthusiasm."

"That's called a mess waiting to happen."

Riley felt the corner of his mouth lift. The argument was familiar now, a rhythm he was starting to recognize, the way Jasmine and Jessica circled each other with affection disguised as irritation. He'd been nervous about tonight—about all of them being in his space, about the weight of their attention, about the thousand ways he could say or do the wrong thing. But the nervousness had settled into something softer, something that felt almost like belonging.

Natalie settled onto the floor across from them again, cross-legged, a plate balanced on her knee. "So. While we wait." She looked at Riley, her eyes warm but sharp. "Tell us something we don't know about you."

The question landed like a stone in still water. Riley felt the familiar tightening in his chest, the urge to deflect, to offer something safe and surface-level.

But Inde's hand was in his. And she was watching him, her dark eyes steady, her thumb tracing a slow line across his knuckles.

He took a breath. "I—" He stopped. Swallowed. "I almost quit swimming. Freshman year."

The room went quiet. Natalie's eyebrows rose. Jasmine stopped rummaging through the drawer. Jessica paused mid-argument, her mouth open, her expression caught between surprise and curiosity.

"Why?" Natalie asked, her voice gentle.

Riley looked down at his lap. At his hand in Inde's. At the way her fingers fit between his like they belonged there. "I didn't think I was good enough." The words came out rough, scraped. "I was on the team, but I wasn't—I wasn't winning. Wasn't even close. And I thought, what's the point? If I'm not going to be the best, why am I even doing it?"

He paused. Inde's hand tightened around his.

"My coach talked me out of it," he continued. "He said I was measuring myself against the wrong thing. Said I should be trying to beat my own time, not everyone else's." He let out a breath, a shaky exhale that carried the weight of the memory. "I didn't believe him at first. But I stayed. And eventually, I started to get it."

The silence stretched. Riley felt exposed, raw, like he'd peeled back a layer he usually kept sealed. He waited for someone to say something, to fill the space with noise and distraction.

Instead, Natalie smiled. A small, genuine smile that reached her eyes. "I'm glad you stayed."

Jasmine nodded, her expression uncharacteristically serious. "Yeah. Same."

Jessica crossed her arms, her chin-length bob swinging as she tilted her head. "You know, for a guy who barely talks, you pick your moments."

Riley felt heat creep up his neck. But it wasn't the burning shame he'd expected. It was something warmer, something that settled in his chest like a hand pressing gently against his heartbeat.

Inde's thumb stroked his knuckles again. A quiet, steady rhythm. A pulse that matched his own.

And Riley let himself breathe.

“Hey guys,” Riley spoke, “How’s your love life going?” He asked unknowingly of the depth of the question, or the situation.

Inde let out a laugh, then covered her mouth.

All of them were looking away, or tapping their fingers on something. Even taking a heavy breath. Natalie and Jessica look at each other and Natalie points to her. She sighed. “Riley, we need to talk, Inde, do you mind?”

Inde shakes her head, Jessica nods and grabs Riley.

“Is there an issue?” Riley asked.

Jessica sighed.

“Is there…” He paused, “Are you into girls?”

Jessica laughed, “You’re funny Thompson, but no. You asked about our love lives, not an easy thing to talk about, and then there’s the second part of it.”

Riley stood confused, “Which is?”

“We’re all happy for Inde, truly, but…” She paused, “We all liked you…”

Riley’s heart skipped a few beats.

“Whether it’s your height, emotions, looks, we all were charmed to you, some way somehow.” She said, and turned to smile at him.

Riley stood shocked, and began feeling queasy.

“Are you alright???” Jessica questioned with worry.

“Give, me a minute…” Riley said as he bolted outside.

Jessica stood there, concerned of what she just revealed.

Riley proceeded to throw up outside.

“What the fuck…” he says and sits down on his porch, “Why me?” He said, looking up at the stars. “Inde, she never stops amazing me. Jessica, one of my dearest friends as a supporter, I saw her as a big sister. Natalie, I saw her as my younger sister, she was, always helpful. Jasmine, my quirkiest friend and always quite the entertainer. And Ella, my study buddy, and one of my favorite people to watch play Volleyball.” He says to himself.

“Why me?”

He comes back in, and heads back to Jessica.

“Are you al—” she got cut off and Riley hugged her, she eased her arms onto her back as he began crying.

“Why Jess?” He said and looked at her again, “I respected all of you, I can’t deal with this…”

“Riley look at me.” Jessica said.

He looked up and their lips touched. A deep kiss.

He sunk in, while still crying, though nothing really changed as they are both 6’5.

He stepped back. “W-why did you do that…” he said, “I won’t tell Inde, but why did you just kiss me.”

Jessica sighed, “You really wanna know huh, let’s go outside.”

Riley followed her out, the door clicking shut behind them. The night air hit him cold and sharp, cutting through the warmth still lingering from the apartment. He hadn't noticed how stuffy it'd gotten inside—how much of that heat had been bodies and noise and the weight of Inde's hand on his chest. Out here, the porch concrete was cool through the soles of his sneakers, and the sky above was a spread of stars barely visible past the streetlight's orange glow.

Jessica stood with her back to him, one hand braced against the railing. Her shoulders rose and fell with a slow breath, and Riley watched the line of her spine through her thin sweater, the way the porch light caught the edge of her chin-length bob. She didn't turn around right away. Just stood there, letting the silence stretch, letting the cold air settle between them.

Riley shoved his hands into his pockets because he didn't know what else to do with them. His lips still felt warm, still carried the ghost of her kiss, and he couldn't quite make sense of that. Couldn't fit it into the shape of their friendship—the way she'd always been the one to grab his arm, lean into his shoulder, claim him for conversations in corners. He'd thought that was just Jessica being Jessica. Clingy. Affectionate. That was her personality.

He'd been wrong.

Jessica turned. Her face was half in shadow, half caught by the porch light, and Riley saw something in her expression he'd never seen before. Not the theatrical enthusiasm she wore like armor, not the easy smile she deployed for cameras and crowds. Something raw. Something that cost her to show.

"I don't even know where to start," she said. Her voice was quieter than he'd ever heard it. No performance. Just her. "I've carried this for so long, Riley. And I told myself it didn't matter. That I could just be your friend, that it was enough, that I didn't need you to know." She laughed, but it wasn't her laugh—it was hollow, empty. "And then Inde happened. And I saw the way you looked at her. And I knew I'd never have that chance."

Riley opened his mouth, but nothing came out. What was he supposed to say? Sorry didn't cover it. Didn't come close.

"You want to know the exact moment?" Jessica asked. She met his eyes, and in the dim light, Riley saw the glint of tears she was fighting back. "It was at the end of sophomore year. The last swim meet of the season."

He remembered that meet. He remembered it because it was the one where he'd been three seconds off his personal best and had spent the rest of the night convinced he'd never improve. He remembered sitting on the bleachers afterward, alone, staring at the chlorinated water while the rest of the team filed out.

"I'd come to watch you," Jessica continued. "I told everyone I was there to scout guys for my acting class—some project about athletes. But that was a lie. I was there for you." She paused, and her voice dropped even lower. "You didn't know I was there. I sat in the top row, behind a pillar, where you wouldn't see me. And after the meet, when everyone was leaving, I watched you stay."

Riley's throat tightened. He remembered that too. The way the pool had gone quiet, the way the echo of his own breathing had filled the empty space. He'd sat there for twenty minutes, maybe longer, letting the failure settle in his chest like a stone.

"And then a freshman—some kid I didn't recognize, maybe fourteen years old—dropped his bag on the deck and sat down next to you. He was crying. I could see it from where I was. And you didn't tell him to leave. You didn't give him a pep talk or try to fix it. You just sat there, next to him, and let him cry." She shook her head slowly, her chin-length bob swaying. "And then you said something. I couldn't hear what it was, but he stopped crying. And you walked him out, your hand on his shoulder, like he mattered. Like his stupid freshman heartbreak mattered."

Riley remembered now. The kid's name was Marcus. He'd bombed his first race, finished dead last, and sat on the bleachers with his head in his hands, shoulders shaking. Riley hadn't known what to say—he never did—so he'd just sat next to him, let him cry, and then said the only thing that had ever made sense to him when he was drowning in his own head.

"It's just a race. It doesn't tell you who you are."

"That was it," Jessica said. "That moment. I'd been telling myself it was just attraction. That I liked your height, your face, the way you made me laugh. But watching you with that kid, I knew it wasn't surface. I knew I was in love with the kind of person you were. The kind who stays when it's easier to leave."

The word hit him like a physical weight. Love. She'd said love. Riley felt the ground shift under his feet, felt the railing of the porch become the only thing keeping him upright. His hands, still in his pockets, clenched into fists.

"Jess, I—" His voice cracked. He cleared his throat, tried again. "I didn't know. I never knew."

"I know you didn't." She laughed again, that hollow sound. "I was careful. I've spent two years being careful. I told myself I'd get over it, that it was just a crush, that eventually someone else would come along and I'd forget about you. But you don't forget someone like Riley Thompson. You just learn to carry it."

He felt tears prick at his own eyes, and he didn't know if they were for her or for himself or for the impossible shape of the situation he'd stumbled into. He'd spent his whole life thinking he was invisible, that no one saw him, that he didn't matter enough to be wanted. And now he was learning that all this time, four of his closest friends had been carrying something for him. And he hadn't noticed.

How could he be so blind? How could he be so focused on making himself small that he'd missed the way they looked at him, touched him, stayed close? Had he been that desperate to believe he was nothing that he'd refused to see what was right in front of him?

The tears fell. He felt them hot on his cheeks, and he didn't bother wiping them away. "I see you as a sister," he said, the words rough, scraped out of him. "I don't—I can't—you're one of my best friends, Jess. You've always been there. But I don't..." He trailed off, because he didn't know how to finish that sentence without breaking something.

"I know." Her voice was steady now, like the confession had released something. "I know you don't feel the same. I've always known. That's why I never said anything." She stepped closer, close enough that he could see the individual strands of her hair catching the porch light. "I didn't tell you this so you'd feel guilty. I told you because you asked. And because—" She paused, her jaw tightening. "Because I kissed you. And you deserved to know why."

Riley thought about the kiss. The shock of it, the way his body had responded before his mind caught up, the way he'd sunk into it for one terrible, beautiful second before pulling away. He'd kissed her back. Just for a heartbeat. And that fact sat in his chest now like a stone he couldn't swallow.

"Does Inde know?" he asked. "About—about all of you?"

Jessica shook her head. "She knows we're close. She knows we've all liked you at some point—Natalie mentioned it to her once, before you two started seeing each other. But she doesn't know it's still there. That it never really went away."

Riley leaned against the railing, the cold metal digging into his lower back. The stars above blurred as he stared at them, and he blinked hard to clear his vision. "The others. Jasmine. Ella. They—"

"They have their own moments," Jessica said. "I can't speak for them. But I know they're happy for you. We all are. Even if it hurts."

He let that sink in. The weight of it. The generosity. They were happy for him even though it cost them something. Even though they'd been carrying this for years. He didn't know how to hold that. Didn't know how to deserve it.

"Why are you telling me this now?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper. "You could have kept it to yourself. I would never have known."

Jessica was quiet for a long moment. The porch light hummed overhead. A car passed on the street, its headlights sweeping across them before fading into the dark.

"Because I'm tired of carrying it alone," she said finally. "And because I saw you tonight, with Inde. The way you looked at her. The way you didn't pull away when she touched you. And I realized I'd been holding onto something that was never mine to keep." She met his eyes, and this time, there was no performance in her gaze. Just honesty, raw and unguarded. "I needed to let it go. And I needed you to know so I couldn't pretend anymore."

Riley felt a sob build in his chest, and he didn't fight it. He let it out—a shuddering breath that carried the weight of the night, the confession, the impossible web of feelings he couldn't untangle. He reached for her, and she stepped into the hug, her arms wrapping around him the way they always had, but different now. Heavier. More honest.

She smelled like jasmine and something floral, the same scent she'd worn since freshman year. He held her, and she held him, and the world narrowed to the small porch and the cold air and the warmth of a friendship that had just been remade into something stranger, something sadder, something that would take time to find its new shape.

"I'm sorry," he said into her hair. "I'm sorry I couldn't—"

"Stop." Her voice was muffled against his shoulder. "Don't apologize for not loving me back. You don't owe me that. You never did."

He pulled back, his hands on her shoulders, his eyes meeting hers. She was crying too, tears leaving dark tracks down her cheeks, but she was smiling. A real smile. Small and sad and maybe a little relieved.

"Thank you," he said. "For telling me. For—for trusting me with this."

She nodded, wiping at her eyes with the back of her hand. "I should get back inside. Before Jasmine sends a search party."

Riley laughed, a broken sound that surprised him. "She's probably already planning the interrogation."

"Definitely." Jessica turned toward the door, her hand on the handle, and then paused. "Riley?"

"Yeah?"

"I meant what I said. I'm happy for you. For you and Inde." She looked over her shoulder, her dark eyes catching the porch light. "Don't screw it up."

He felt his lips quirk into something that might have been a smile. "I'll try not to."

She nodded, and opened the door. The noise from inside spilled out—Jasmine's laugh, the bass of the music, Natalie's warm voice calling something to Ella. For a moment, the light from the apartment flooded the porch, bright and warm, and Riley saw the shapes of his friends moving inside, unaware of what had just happened on the doorstep.

Jessica stepped through, and the door began to swing closed behind her.

Before it latched, a hand caught it. Inde's hand.

She stood in the doorway, her dark eyes flicking from Jessica's retreating back to Riley's face. The porch light caught the edge of her profile, the line of her jaw, the slight furrow between her brows. She didn't say anything. Just looked at him, her expression unreadable, and waited.

The door clicked shut behind her, leaving them alone on the porch.

The porch light hummed overhead, a faint electric buzz that filled the silence between them. Inde stood with her back to the door, her dark eyes fixed on Riley, her expression unreadable. The night air moved between them, cold and sharp, and Riley felt the weight of everything unsaid pressing against his chest.

"Inde." Her name came out rough, scraped. He didn't know what to follow it with. Didn't know how to explain the kiss he'd shared with Jessica, the confession she'd just made, the web of feelings he'd stumbled into without knowing it existed.

She didn't move. Just watched him, her hands at her sides, her ponytail catching the porch light. "You were crying."

He touched his face. His cheeks were still damp, the tears drying in the cold air. He hadn't realized she could see that from the doorway. "I—yeah. I was."

"Jessica was crying too." Her voice was quiet, steady, not accusing. Just stating a fact. "I saw her face when she came back in."

Riley's throat tightened. He wanted to tell her everything. Every word Jessica had said, every moment that had reshaped the landscape of his friendships. But the words wouldn't come. They sat in his chest, tangled and heavy, and he didn't know how to untangle them without breaking something.

"She told me something," he said finally. His voice was barely above a whisper. "Something I didn't know. Something I should have known."

Inde stepped closer. Just one step, but it brought her within arm's reach. Her dark eyes searched his face, and he felt the weight of her attention like a physical thing. "Do you want to tell me?"

The question was soft. Open. It left room for him to say no, to retreat into the silence he'd built his life around. But something had shifted in him tonight—something that made retreat feel like a betrayal of the moment, of Inde, of himself.

"I need a minute," he said. "I need to—" He stopped, pulled his phone from his pocket. His fingers moved before his brain caught up, typing a message to Jessica. Come back outside. Please. He hit send before he could second-guess it. "I need to talk to Jessica again. Alone."

Inde's expression flickered. Not hurt, exactly. Something more complicated. Something that might have been concern, or fear, or the beginning of understanding. "Okay."

"I'm not—" He reached for her hand, caught himself, let his arm fall back to his side. "It's not what you think. I just need to—"

"You don't have to explain." Her voice was steady. "I trust you."

The words hit him harder than he expected. He felt his eyes sting again, fresh tears threatening to spill. He blinked them back, nodded, and watched as she turned and pulled the door open. The noise from inside spilled out—Jasmine's laugh, the bass of the music, the clatter of plates being set out. Inde paused at the threshold, looked back at him once, and then stepped through.

The door clicked shut.

Riley stood alone on the porch, his phone warm in his hand, his heart pounding against his ribs. The cold air bit at his cheeks, at the damp tracks of his tears, and he counted his breaths—in, out, in, out—trying to find a rhythm that didn't feel like panic.

The door opened again.

Jessica stepped out, her chin-length bob swinging as she turned to face him. Her eyes were red-rimmed, her cheeks still blotchy from crying, but there was something different in her posture. Lighter. Like the confession had unburdened her.

"You texted." Her voice was quiet, uncertain. "I thought we—"

"I need to say something." Riley cut her off, and the words came out before he could stop them. "Before I lose my nerve."

Jessica's eyebrows rose. She folded her arms across her chest, a defensive gesture, but her eyes were soft. "Okay."

Riley took a breath. The cold air filled his lungs, sharp and clean, and he let it settle before he spoke. "The truth is, I love you all. I couldn't express it to any of you. I loved you guys equally, and I mean it."

The words hung in the air between them. Jessica's mouth parted slightly, her dark eyes widening as the meaning of what he'd said settled over her.

"All of us?" she repeated. Her voice was barely audible. "Riley, that's—"

"I know." He shook his head, running a hand through his hair. "I know it's complicated. I know it doesn't make sense. But I've spent so long thinking I was nothing—that no one saw me, that I didn't matter—that I never let myself feel what was right in front of me. And now I know, and I don't know what to do with it."

Jessica took a step closer. Her arms uncrossed, falling to her sides. "What do you mean, you love us equally?"

Riley met her eyes. In the dim porch light, he could see the tears gathering at the corners of hers, could see the hope and the fear and the confusion warring in her expression. "I mean that when I think about you—about all of you—I feel the same thing. A warmth. A pull. Like you're all part of something I didn't know I was building." He paused, his voice cracking. "I don't know how to choose. I don't know if I can."

Jessica's face began to blush. A deep, slow flush that spread from her cheeks to her ears, visible even in the dim light. She looked down at her feet, then back up at him, and something in her expression shifted. Softened. Opened.

"You're an idiot, Riley Thompson." Her voice was thick with emotion. "You know that?"

He felt his lips twitch into something that might have been a smile. "I've been told."

She stepped closer. Close enough that he could smell her perfume—jasmine and something floral, the same scent she'd worn since freshman year. Close enough that he could see the individual strands of her hair catching the porch light, the faint shimmer of tears still clinging to her lashes.

"If you love us all equally," she said, her voice dropping to a whisper, "then you need to show us. Not just me. All of us."

Riley's heart hammered against his ribs. "I don't know how."

Jessica reached up, her hand brushing against his cheek. Her palm was warm against his cold skin, and he leaned into the touch without thinking, his eyes closing for a fraction of a second.

"Start with me," she said.

And then she kissed him.

This time, Riley didn't pull away. This time, he let himself sink into it—the warmth of her lips, the softness of her mouth, the way her hand slid from his cheek to the back of his neck, pulling him closer. He felt the tears spill over, hot and silent, and he tasted salt on her lips, salt that might have been hers or his or both.

The kiss went on. Longer than the first one. Deeper. And Riley felt something shift in his chest, something that had been locked for so long he'd forgotten it existed. A door opening. A choice being made.

When they finally broke apart, they were both breathing hard. Jessica's hand was still on the back of his neck, her forehead pressed to his, and he could feel the rapid flutter of her heartbeat through the thin space between them.

"I love you, Jess." The words came out before he could stop them. "I love all of you. And I don't know what that means. I don't know how to make it work. But I needed you to know."

Jessica let out a breath that was half laugh, half sob. "You're going to break a lot of hearts, Riley Thompson. Including your own."

He pulled back, just enough to look at her face. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes bright, her lips slightly swollen. She looked beautiful. She looked like someone who had just been told she was loved.

"Maybe," he said. "But I'd rather break them honestly than keep them guessing."

She smiled. A real smile, warm and sad and relieved all at once. "That's the Riley I fell in love with."

A car passed on the street below, its headlights sweeping across them before fading into the dark. The porch light hummed overhead. Somewhere inside, Jasmine's laugh cut through the music, bright and unrestrained.

Jessica stepped back, her hand falling from his neck. She wiped at her eyes with the back of her hand, smearing mascara across her cheek. "I should go back in. Before they send a search party."

Riley nodded. "I'll be in in a minute. I just need—" He gestured vaguely at the night sky. "A second."

She studied him for a moment, her dark eyes searching his face. Then she nodded, turned, and pulled open the door. The light from inside spilled out, warm and bright, and for a moment, she was silhouetted against it—tall and strong and braver than she'd ever let herself seem.

"Riley?"

"Yeah?"

"Don't take too long." She smiled, a hint of her old theatricality creeping back into her voice. "The pizza's almost here, and I refuse to let Jasmine eat all the white sauce slices."

He laughed. It came out watery and surprised, and he felt some of the tension in his chest loosen. "I'll be quick."

She stepped through, and the door swung shut, leaving him alone again.

The porch was quiet. The stars above were scattered across the dark sky, faint and distant, barely visible past the streetlight's orange glow. Riley leaned against the railing, letting the cold metal dig into his lower back, and stared up at them.

He thought about Inde. About the way she'd looked at him before disappearing inside—trusting, open, afraid but willing. He thought about Jessica, about the weight of her confession and the heat of her kiss. He thought about Natalie, Jasmine, Ella—each of them carrying something for him, something he'd never noticed, something he'd never known how to hold.

He didn't know what came next. Didn't know how to be the person who loved five people at once, who could hold all of them without breaking any of them. But standing on the porch, under the stars, with the taste of Jessica's kiss still on his lips and the memory of Inde's trust still warm in his chest, he felt something he'd never felt before.

He felt like he might be enough.

The door opened behind him.

He turned. Inde stood in the doorway, her silhouette backlit by the warm light of the apartment. She didn't say anything. Just looked at him, her dark eyes steady, her expression unreadable.

And Riley realized, with a certainty that settled into his bones like gravity, that the hardest part was still ahead of him.

He stepped toward her.

She didn't move as he crossed the distance between them. The porch boards creaked under his weight, the sound loud in the quiet night. When he reached the threshold, he stopped, close enough to see the way the lamplight caught the edge of her jaw, the slight parting of her lips as she watched him.

"I heard," she said. Her voice was quiet, steady, but there was something underneath it — a tremor she was working hard to suppress. "The door was cracked. I didn't mean to eavesdrop, but —" She stopped, her dark eyes searching his face. "I heard what you said to Jessica. About loving all of them."

Riley's stomach dropped. He opened his mouth, closed it, tried again. "Inde, I —"

"And I saw you kiss her." Her voice cracked on the last word, and she looked away, her jaw tightening. "From the window. I came back out to check on you, and I saw."

The ground shifted under Riley's feet. He reached for the doorframe, his hand gripping the wood, steadying himself. "Inde, please. Let me explain."

She looked back at him. Her eyes were wet, but she wasn't crying — not yet. Her hands were pressed flat against her thighs, fingers spread, like she was holding herself together by sheer force of will. "I told you I trusted you. I meant it. But you need to tell me what's happening. Because I can't —" Her voice broke, and she swallowed hard. "I can't watch you fall for someone else and pretend I don't see it."

Riley felt tears prick at his own eyes again. He stepped closer, into the doorway, close enough that he could feel the warmth radiating off her body. "I'm not falling for someone else. I'm not —" He stopped, running a hand through his hair, trying to find the words. "I don't know what's happening. I never expected any of this. I spent my whole life thinking I was invisible, that no one wanted me, and now —" He gestured vaguely at the apartment, at the noise inside, at the weight of everything that had happened tonight. "Now I find out that four of my closest friends have been carrying feelings for me. For years. And I didn't notice because I was too busy convincing myself I wasn't worth noticing."

Inde's expression flickered — pain, understanding, something else he couldn't name. "That doesn't change what I saw."

"I know." His voice was barely a whisper. "I know. And I'm not going to lie to you about it. I kissed her back. Both times. And when she told me she loved me, I — I told her I loved her too. That I loved all of them." He paused, the words scraping out of him. "But that doesn't mean I love you less. It doesn't mean I don't want you."

Inde was crying now. Silent tears, tracking down her cheeks, catching the lamplight. She didn't wipe them away. "You can't love five people at once, Riley."

"Why not?" The question came out raw, desperate. "Why is that impossible? I love my parents. I love my friends. I love —" He stopped, his throat closing. "I love you. And I don't know how to hold all of it without breaking something. But I know that pretending I don't feel it would break me first."

She stared at him. The music inside shifted — something slower, a guitar riff that bled through the closed door. The porch light hummed. Somewhere in the distance, a dog barked once, twice, then fell silent.

"What do you want from me?" Inde asked. Her voice was barely audible, a thread of sound in the cold night air. "What do you want from us?"

Riley thought about it. Really thought about it. The shape of the question sat in his chest, heavy and unfamiliar, demanding an answer he didn't have. He thought about Inde's hand on his chest earlier, the way it had felt like a claim and a promise. He thought about Jessica's kiss, the way his body had responded before his mind caught up. He thought about Natalie's knowing gaze, Jasmine's bright laughter, Ella's quiet presence — each of them a thread in something he was only beginning to understand.

"I don't know," he said finally. "But I want to figure it out. With you. With all of you. I don't want to lose anyone." He reached out, his hand hovering near hers, waiting. "But I need you to tell me if that's something you can even consider. Because if it's not —" He swallowed. "If it's not, I need to know now."

Inde looked at his hand. Her own hand stayed at her side, still pressed flat against her thigh. The silence stretched, a single rotation of the ceiling fan inside, a breath held too long.

Then her hand moved. Not to his — not yet. She reached up, wiping the tears from her cheeks with the back of her wrist, smearing them across her skin. When she looked at him again, her eyes were red but steady.

"I don't know if I can share you." Her voice was quiet but firm. "I don't know if I'm built that way. But I know I'm not ready to walk away. Not tonight."

Riley let out a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding. "That's — that's enough. For now."

Inde nodded. And then, slowly, she reached out and took his hand. Her fingers were cold, trembling slightly, but they interlaced with his like they belonged there.

"I don't know what this is going to look like tomorrow," she said. "But tonight, I'm still here."

Riley squeezed her hand, and felt something fragile and precious settle into place between them. "Tonight is enough."