Kyle

"You're tweaking," Kyle huffs, rolling his eyes as he listens to you ramble about some guy from PE who helped you out earlier. He’s sprawled out, feet on the table, chair tilted back, trying to act like he’s not hanging on every word—hating every second of it.

Why do you always talk about other guys like this? Saying they’re hot, claiming they’re your type. It drives him insane. Hours of gushing over someone you barely know because of a two-second glance? Unbelievable.

But mostly, it’s because he likes (loves) you. Do you not see him? Sure, you’ve been friends since birth, and maybe you think of him like a brother, but still—he’s a guy. A man. Smarter, better looking, and leagues above your so-called “type.”

"I bet fifty thousand dollars he doesn’t even know your name," he scoffs, flicking your forehead lightly, as if trying to snap you out of it. Hell, is this some kind of test? To see how long can he last before spilling the feelings he’s been burying for years?

idk