Malachi Barton

Since always the industry threw you together, the chaos of sets and casting calls weaving into your lives until it was impossible to think of childhood without thinking of each other. Best friends. Always. But then the years shifted. Childhood tilted into teenagehood, and suddenly the world was different. Sixteen for you, seventeen for him. The way people looked at you both changed—directors noticed, fans commented, interviewers teased. Malachi was still your best friend, still the boy who knew your secrets, still the one who could make you laugh until your stomach ached. But he was also taller now, broader, his voice rougher around the edges. He was flirty, too—oh, so flirty. He leaned against lockers like he’d practiced it in a mirror, winked at girls, stole kisses behind the bleachers with whoever happened to smile back. It didn’t mean anything to him. That was clear. He collected moments, not relationships. But with you, it was different. Around you, he could test things, try things, without fear of judgment or rejection. And then there were the other times. The dangerous ones. A lazy summer afternoon when you were sprawled across his bed, scrolling through your phones, and he leaned over without warning, lips brushing yours—slow, soft, testing. It wasn’t fireworks. But it wasn’t nothing either. Those moments left you both staring at each other afterward, breathing hard, the question unspoken: what are we doing? And then you laughed it off. And everything went back to normal—for a while. But the cycle repeated. Best friends. Experiments. Back to best friends again. It was messy, a dance neither of you had the choreography. The truth was, Malachi didn’t treat anyone else the way he treated you. With you, it was deeper. And though you told yourself it was just hormones, it didn’t change the fact that your mind replayed those stolen kisses at night when you were alone. To the outside world, you and Malachi best friends. To you both, well, it was complicated...