The moment Dean leaned in, his lips inches from Skyler's, their eyes locked in a silent storm. Time slowed, the Santa Monica night holding its breath, streetlights casting a soft glow through the car's windows. But then, as if a switch flipped, Dean faltered. His arms opened awkwardly, and Skyler, caught off guard, leaned into a quick, clumsy hug, her heart pounding with confusion.
"Goodbye," she mumbled, her voice barely audible as she fumbled with the door handle and slipped out of the Lamborghini Urus.
Dean watched her disappear into her house, his hands gripping the steering wheel until his knuckles whitened. As he pulled out of the driveway and rounded the corner, regret hit him like a wave. Why didn't he do it? His chest ached, his breath shallow, a restless heat coursing through him as he replayed the moment—her eyes, her breath, the way she hadn't pulled away. He slammed his palm against the wheel, the sharp sting grounding him. He'd frozen, and now the chance was gone.
Inside her house, Skyler leaned against the closed door, her breath shaky. Had she misread him? The way he'd looked at her, the way he'd leaned in—it felt like more than friendship. But that awkward hug, his hesitation… maybe she'd seen what she wanted to see. Embarrassment burned her cheeks, and she slid down to the floor, her back against the door, the cool wood doing little to calm the storm in her chest. She pressed her palms to her face, willing the moment to fade, but it clung to her like the salt air outside.
The next morning, Dean woke with a dull headache, the kind that felt like last night's mistakes had settled behind his eyes. He lay in bed, staring at the ceiling of his Santa Monica apartment, the almost-kiss replaying in his mind. He'd figured out why he hadn't gone for it: Skyler was too important. She wasn't just some fleeting crush, some spark of lust that would burn out and leave them both broken. She was his best friend, the one he couldn't bear to lose. If he risked their friendship and it went wrong, he'd never forgive himself. It was safer this way, he told himself, even if his heart felt like it was tearing itself apart.
His phone buzzed, shattering the silence. "Dude, it's Saturday. No excuses, no class. You're coming to my house, ten sharp, or you forfeit all your EA Sports FC 25 matches," Chris's voice blared through the speaker.
Dean groaned, rubbing his temple. He wasn't in the mood for Chris's loud energy or their friends' chaotic hangouts, but bailing wasn't an option. "Fine," he muttered, dragging himself out of bed to get ready.
By the time he pulled up to Chris's place—a beachside bungalow with surfboards leaning against the porch—Dean's nerves were frayed. He hadn't stopped thinking about Skyler, and now he'd have to face her.
He stepped inside, the familiar chaos of his friends greeting him—Tony sprawled on the couch, Mia arguing over snacks, and Skyler… there, sitting cross-legged on the floor, a controller in her hands, laughing like nothing had happened. Her eyes flicked to him, bright and casual, and she gave him a quick smile.
"Took you long enough," she teased, her tone so normal it stung.
Dean forced a grin, dropping onto the couch. "Traffic," he lied, his voice steady despite the knot in his stomach. She was acting like last night was nothing, like they hadn't almost crossed a line. He followed her lead, keeping it light, joking about Mia's terrible passing in EA Sports FC 25 as the group set up the match. But every time Skyler laughed or tossed her hair, his chest tightened, and he wondered if she was pretending as hard as he was.
The living room buzzed with energy—controllers clicking, shouts echoing after missed shots, the TV flashing goals and replays. Dean tried to focus, but Skyler was everywhere: her laugh, her quick glances, the way she leaned forward whenever her striker had the ball.
Then, as the couch got crowded, Mia nudged Skyler. "Scoot over, you're hogging the space."
Skyler rolled her eyes but shifted, climbing onto Dean's lap without a second thought, settling right in front of him. The sudden warmth of her against him sent a jolt through his body, his breath catching as he tried to stay still. She was close—too close—her warmth pressed into him, impossible to ignore; his hands froze on the controller, the screen a blur.
"You're blocking my view," he said, his voice tighter than he meant, a weak attempt to cover the heat rising in him.
Skyler turned, her eyes locking onto his, and for a fraction of a second, the room faded away. Her gaze was intense, searching, like she could see right through his flimsy excuse. The air between them crackled, and Dean felt his body betray him, a rush of warmth he couldn't ignore. Her lips parted slightly, and he wondered if she felt it too—the pull, the unspoken truth they were both dodging.
Chris, mid-match and losing 4–0, broke the moment. "Yo, you two should just date already," he said, smirking as he glanced over.
Skyler and Dean spoke at the same time, their voices overlapping in a rush.
"He's like a brother," she said."She's just a friend," he said.
The words hit like a punch. Skyler's smile faltered, her eyes dropping to the floor, and Dean felt his stomach twist. She'd acknowledged something he hadn't—her feelings, the ones she'd buried under that quick goodbye last night. And his denial, his insistence on "just a friend," cut deeper than he'd expected, even to himself. He wanted to take it back, to tell her he didn't mean it, but the words stuck in his throat.
Chris exchanged a look with Tony, leaning over to whisper, "They're too far gone." Tony nodded, hiding a grin as he scored another goal.
The game went on, but Dean barely noticed. Skyler stayed on his lap, her body still against his, but the ease between them was gone. Every laugh, every glance, felt like a lie they were both telling. And yet, as her warmth pressed against him, Dean's body told a truth his words couldn't: he wasn't just her friend, and she was never just his sister. Whatever they were, it was too late to pretend it didn't exist.