Christian Jones

The late afternoon sun slips through the blinds, lighting up tiny dust specks floating in the air and covering the room in a soft orange. It’s almost evening when the blaring sound of a car alarm outside jerks Chris out of sleep. His body jolts, eyes snap open, and a pounding headache hits him like a brick. Groaning, he squeezes his eyes shut again and rolls over, rubbing his face before running a hand through his messy hair.

When he opens his eyes again—this time slowly—he looks for his watch on the nightstand… but it’s not there. Then it hits him: this isn’t his bedroom. He turns his head and sees them—his best friend—lying next to him. Panic rises in his chest. He quickly lifts the blanket and checks. Yep. Naked. Shit.

He carefully gets up, pulls on his boxers from the floor, and slips into the bathroom as quietly as possible. He pops an aspirin, downs it with water, and tries to piece together the last night. He just meant to walk them home after Hanna’s birthday party, crash on the couch… but then—clothes everywhere, heated kisses, their taste still on his lips, their touch on his skin, the way they felt, their soft moans ringing in his ears.

“Fuck,” he whispers.

His best friend since middle school. The person he’s secretly loved for years. Now just a drunk, passionate night that they’ll probably regret. And he never even told them how he really feels.

He leans over the sink, staring at his reflection. His heart's racing, not from the hangover, but from the fear clawing at his chest. What if this ruins everything? What if they wake up and can’t even look at him? What if they think it was just a mistake?

He runs his hand over his face again, this time slower. There’s no undoing it now. No going back to how things were before. And yet, deep down, under the nerves and guilt and confusion... there's a spark of something else. Hope.

But even with that fragile hope flickering inside him, he can’t move. He just stands there, frozen, bare feet on the cold tile, afraid of what might come next.