#invincible amber bennett | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

mintyys-blog · 8 days ago

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BLURRED LINES | mark grayson x pervert! reader

INVINCIBLE MASTERLIST 2 | WARNINGS: reader has a wet dream about her best friend, perv! reader, sexual themes, unrequited love, stealing, self pleasuring, jealously towards Amber.

Mark’s voice filled the room like background music—comforting, familiar, and completely unimportant compared to the storm of thoughts whirling inside your head.

He was talking about a new comic he’d picked up—something about a crossover event, multiverse drama, a villain turning hero. You didn’t care. Not really. You just nodded, curled on your side on his bed, head propped up on your hand as you watched his mouth move.

God, his lips. His stupidly soft-looking lips.

Your thighs clenched slightly, and you bit the inside of your cheek.

Get a grip.

It wasn’t your fault he’d gotten so… tall. Broad-shouldered. That little curl in his hair fell just right now. Ever since puberty hit him like a freight train, your crush had twisted into something darker, more desperate. Every smile he gave you made your stomach do flips. Every laugh made your breath catch.

Every time he leaned too close, you had to try not to think about his hands on your hips, pulling you back into—

“—what do you think?” he asked suddenly.

You blinked. Shit. You’d zoned out again.

“Totally,” you said quickly, nodding as if you’d heard a single word.

He grinned, bright and open, like he always did. That grin. It killed you.

Then his phone buzzed. He groaned, pulling it from his pocket. “Ugh. Hero stuff. I’ll be back in, like, half an hour. Don’t steal anything.”

You smiled sweetly. “No promises.”

He rolled his eyes, already heading to the window. “See ya, perv.”

Your heart skipped. He didn’t mean it. Not really. He didn’t know. Couldn’t know.

You waved as he disappeared into the sky.

Once he was gone, the silence fell heavy. You sat up slowly, eyes scanning the familiar room. The comic posters. The cluttered desk. The heap of laundry in the corner. A part of you felt guilty.

The other part didn’t hesitate.

You slid off the bed and padded over to the hamper. Your fingers sifted through the pile until they found what you were looking for—worn, navy blue boxers.

Still warm from being recently worn. You bit your lip and smiled, slipping them into your purse.

A small trophy. A secret piece of him, just for you.

As you straightened, your eyes caught something on the nightstand.

Lotion. Tissues. Not exactly subtle.

Your stomach twisted with something that felt like hope. Was he… frustrated? Like you? Was he alone at night thinking about someone?

Thinking about you?

You swallowed hard.

It was too much. You needed to leave before you did something stupid.

On your way out, you found Debbie in the kitchen. You flashed her a smile. “Hey, something came up. Tell Mark I’ll be back tomorrow?”

She smiled warmly. “Of course, sweetie.” You stepped outside, the sun warm on your skin, but all you could feel was the heat simmering just under the surface—desire, shame, and something dangerously close to obsession.

The door to your room clicked shut behind you, and you leaned against it for a moment, heart still fluttering from earlier. You’d seen him just an hour ago, and yet it felt like your skin still buzzed from being near him. From being in his space.

You slipped off your shoes quietly, a little smirk tugging at your lips as you set your purse down and carefully unzipped it.

There they were.

You pulled the boxers out gently, reverently—Mark’s boxers. Worn. Still faintly warm when you’d grabbed them, though now they’d cooled in your bag. But the scent clung. Faint, masculine. Him.

A shiver raced down your spine.

You turned and moved to your window, locking it with a sharp click before yanking the curtains shut. No moonlight. No street lamps. No light at all. Just the darkness and your mind. Way better that way—your imagination always ran wilder when there was nothing else to focus on.

You stripped out of your jeans, leaving them crumpled on the floor as you climbed into bed, the boxers clutched in your hand. The fabric felt soft against your fingers, against your cheek as you held them close. You closed your eyes and breathed in.

It hit you immediately.

God. It smelled like him. You pressed them harder against your face, your other hand slipping beneath the waistband of your panties, already damp with need.

In the dark, it was easier to picture it.

Mark above you. Leaned over, face so close you could feel his breath. Those big, warm hands gripping your thighs as he pulled them apart like he owned you. His voice low, maybe even a little rough—

“You think I haven’t noticed the way you look at me?”

You gasped softly, biting your lip as your fingers moved slow, teasing. Just the way you liked it. Just how you imagined he would touch you, if he ever looked at you that way.

If he ever knew.

Your legs tensed, back arching just slightly as you imagined him—eyes dark, cocky grin gone, replaced by something intense. Needy.

“You walk around acting so innocent,” he growled in your head, “but I know what you think about. I know you want this.”

You moaned quietly, pressing the boxers tighter against your mouth to muffle it. You could almost feel his weight on top of you. The heat of his body. The stretch. The pressure.

You moved faster.

Your breath caught. Your hips bucked. You whispered his name—once, then again, a little louder, unable to stop yourself. You came hard, stars bursting behind your eyelids as you trembled in the dark, teeth clenched to stop the cry that threatened to escape.

Silence returned slowly.

You laid there for a moment, chest rising and falling, Mark’s boxers still in your hands, damp now from sweat and something else.

You should feel guilty.

But you didn’t. You rolled over, clutching the fabric to your chest like it was sacred. And smiled. Tomorrow, you’d see him again.

The room was still dark when sleep claimed you.

Wrapped in a haze of warmth and the lingering scent of Mark’s boxers, your dreams turned quickly, twisting into something vivid and electric.

In your dream, you were back in his room. Mark was standing in front of you, shirtless, the faint glow from the window outlining his body. His expression was unreadable—intense, focused solely on you. His hands were on your hips, rough and possessive, and you couldn’t remember how you’d ended up bent over his desk, but you didn’t care. You moaned his name as he pressed against you from behind, and—

Your body jerked as pleasure flooded your senses. Even in sleep, your thighs tensed, back arching against the sheets as your breath came out in ragged little pants. You woke up just as the aftershocks trembled through you, a gasp slipping out before you could stop it.

Your sheets were tangled. Your legs slick with sweat. You blinked at the ceiling, heart still racing, biting your lip as you tried to collect yourself. The room was still quiet, save for the gentle hum of morning traffic outside. Your phone buzzed on the nightstand. Mark.

You stared for a second—almost laughed. You hadn’t even fully come down yet, and now he was calling? You were still throbbing. You took a breath, composed yourself as best you could, and answered. “Hey,” you said, voice just a little breathy.

“Hey! So, I was thinking, I never finished telling you about that comic yesterday. The one with the super-dog hero thing?” You bit your lip, your hand already wandering again, slow and shameless under the blanket. You wanted to hear him talk. Wanted his voice in your ear while your fingers slid lower.

“Yeah?” you whispered. “Tell me again.” He launched into it without hesitation—rambling about the dog’s powers, how he’d saved a planet, something about laser eyes. You nodded along, only half-listening. Your fingers found your sweet spot, slow circles that made your stomach clench.

You couldn’t help the soft moan that escaped. He went silent. “Y/N…?” he said, voice laced with concern. “Are you okay?”

Your eyes flew open. Shit. “Oh! Yeah!” you said quickly. “I, uh—I just hit my toe on the bedframe. Kinda hurts…” You let out a fake whimper of pain, adding a pitiful little groan for good measure.

“Ouch, damn,” he said, sympathetic. “You okay? Want me to bring ice when you come over?” You exhaled in relief. “I’m fine. Promise,” you said, still breathless. “And yeah… I’m definitely still coming over.”

There was a pause. “Cool,” he said. “See you soon, then.” You hung up and let the phone drop beside you, fingers still moving, now faster—need sharper than ever. Gosh, you thought, biting down on a pillow this time. You were going to see him again today. And maybe—just maybe—you’d get a little bolder.

You arrived at Mark’s house about twenty minutes later, freshly showered, skin still tingling from your morning activities. You’d picked out your outfit carefully—casual, but flattering. Something soft, something clingy, something that might make him look twice. He never had. Not in that way. But you were patient.

You’d gotten good at being subtle. Quiet. Secretive.

A perfect best friend on the outside.

An undercover pervert on the inside.

No one would ever guess what ran through your mind when Mark’s hand brushed yours. Or when he lay on the floor beside you during movie nights, close enough for you to smell his skin. No one knew how often you pictured him above you, groaning your name instead of comic trivia. How you’d sometimes “borrow” things from his room. How you had a private folder on your phone titled Chem Notes—completely innocent-looking—where you kept screenshots of his texts, selfies, and clips from his training footage you shouldn’t even have.

You were very, very good at pretending.

But nothing prepared you for her.

Amber.

She was already at the house when you walked in. Sitting on the couch, legs crossed, hair perfect, wearing one of those effortless smiles that made you instantly suspicious. She stood when she saw you, brushing her hands on her jeans and walking over with polite confidence.

“You must be Y/N!” she said warmly. “I’ve heard so much about you.”

You blinked, then forced a smile.

“Oh?” you said, stepping closer. “All good things, I hope.”

Mark walked in from the kitchen, grinning. “All good. I talk about you both too much, probably.”

Amber laughed. “You really do. But I like putting faces to names. It’s nice to finally meet you.”

She extended her hand. You shook it.

Her grip was firm.

Yours was just a touch tighter.

“I’ve heard a lot about you, too,” you said sweetly, eyes sharp. “Glad you could squeeze in time for his other best girl.”

Amber blinked—just for a moment. Then she smiled again. “Of course. I know how important you are to him.”

You were prepared to hate her.

But she wasn’t smug. She didn’t even cling to Mark. In fact, when he came over and brushed a kiss to her cheek, she gave you a quick glance first—like checking to see if it made you uncomfortable. And when she noticed you watching, she gently pulled back and moved to sit a few feet away from him on the couch.

You narrowed your eyes. That bitch. So considerate. So respectful. It pissed you off even more.

You kept the act up—laughing at her jokes, asking her fake-friendly questions, nodding along when she complimented your outfit. But deep down, you couldn’t stop thinking about how her lipstick had smudged just a little when Mark kissed her.

How her thigh brushed his when she leaned over to grab the remote. How it should be you. And it would be. Eventually. Because unlike Amber, you were always there. Every day. Every secret. Every late night.

You knew his favorite cereal, the way he snored when he was sick, the exact shape of his back muscles under his suit.

And Amber? She didn’t know shit.

Amber left not long after, giving Mark a kiss on the cheek—short, sweet, but enough to make your jaw tense. You kept your smile fixed in place, fingers digging into the hem of your sleeve as you watched her walk out like she belonged there.

As soon as the door shut, Mark flopped face-first onto the couch with a dramatic groan.

“So what do you think of Amber?”

“She’s cool,” you said flatly.

He grinned, rolling onto his side to face you, eyes lighting up. “I know, right? She’s amazing. Like, seriously. She does all this volunteer work, helps tutor kids on weekends, and she’s really into urban planning. Like who even cares about that?”

You offered him a tight smile and nodded, eyes not really on him.

Urban planning. Wow. She sounds so selfless and perfect. Maybe she should date the mayor.

“Mark,” you cut in, voice soft. “Can we just go to your room for the night?”

He blinked, surprised by the shift. “Uh… yeah. Sure.”

You didn’t wait for him to offer more. You were already halfway up the stairs.

His room was the same as always—lived-in and warm, smelling like his detergent and whatever body spray he liked. You climbed onto his bed without a word and grabbed the remote from his nightstand.

“Netflix?” you offered casually.

He nodded, still a little hesitant, and joined you on the bed. You settled in close beside him, head on his chest, arm draped across his stomach like you’d done a thousand times before.

But this time, his body stiffened underneath you.

“Uh… Y/N, I have a girlfriend,” he said quietly. “I don’t think we should—”

You rolled your eyes and gave him a light, playful slap on the chest. “Mark, come on. We’ve been friends for over a decade. I wouldn’t try anything. We always did this.”

He sighed, shoulders relaxing slightly. “Yeah… yeah, sorry. You’re right.”

You laid your head back down on his chest, feeling the steady thump of his heart beneath your ear. Your fingers brushed lightly over the fabric of his shirt, subtle, slow.

Innocent enough.

But in your mind?

You weren’t thinking about Netflix.

You were thinking about peeling his shirt off. About straddling his lap and making him forget Amber’s name. About what it would sound like when he finally moaned yours.

You smiled to yourself in the dark, face buried against his warmth. One day, Mark. You’ll realize.

His hand hovered for a second, then dropped gently onto the bed beside him—not touching you, but close. Like he was still unsure. Still thinking about Amber.

Always Amber.

You kept your breathing even, face still nestled into his chest. You could hear everything—his heartbeat, the faint rumble of his stomach, the way his breath hitched every now and then when you adjusted your body slightly against his side.

You were so warm, so close. How could he not feel it?

The ache between your legs hadn’t gone away—not after this morning, not after Amber’s perfect little goodbye kiss. It had only grown worse. Being in his bed, curled up on his chest, inhaling his scent again…

You let your hand slide lower. Just a bit. Casual.

Resting over his stomach.

His muscles tensed beneath your palm.

You didn’t say a word. Just kept staring at the screen, pretending to focus on the show you’d chosen—some action series neither of you really cared about. Just noise.

His voice was quieter this time. “You, uh… good?”

You smiled against his shirt. “Yeah. You’re comfy.”

Another long pause.

You didn’t need to look at him to know he was thinking. Probably overthinking. Trying to convince himself there was nothing weird about this. That it was just like old times.

It wasn’t.

You knew it.

But he didn’t need to know just how different it had become for you.

Your hand drifted slightly again—barely a brush of your fingers over the hem of his waistband. Just enough to make his breath catch.

You bit back a grin.

He shifted, a nervous little movement under you. You could feel the heat rising in his chest. You wondered if he was hard already, or just trying not to be.

You tilted your head up slightly, voice syrupy sweet. “You okay?”

He swallowed. “Y-Yeah. Just… warm in here.”

“Mmm,” you hummed, then laid your head back down.

Your hand stayed right where it was—dangerously close.

Tempting.

And you waited, patient and still, while the sound of explosions on-screen filled the room. You could feel it—how distracted he was. How focused he was on every tiny movement you made.

The best part? You hadn’t even really started yet.

Mark shifted beneath you again, his body growing visibly more tense. You felt the flex of his abs under your hand, the tight swallow in his throat as he tried to keep his breathing steady.

Then he spoke—soft but edged with nerves.

“Maybe we should, uh… do something else.”

You didn’t move. Didn’t lift your head. Just gave the tiniest squeeze to his side and let your voice drip with innocence.

“No,” you murmured. “I like this movie.”

It was a lie. You didn’t even know the main character’s name.

But this moment? His warmth, his unease, the subtle pressure of your body molded against his—this was what you liked.

His heart thumped faster beneath your cheek.

He laughed, weakly. “Since when do you care about sci-fi junk?”

“Since always,” you said with a little smile, fingers now tracing a slow, light circle just above his waistband. “You just never noticed.” He tensed again. You felt it—how hard he was trying not to shift anymore, not to react, like the problem would solve itself if he just stayed still. Poor Mark. He was so good. So loyal. But his body didn’t lie the way his mouth did. And the best part? You weren’t even touching him wrong. You weren’t breaking any rules.

Technically.

But the way his body twitched beneath you, the way he cleared his throat and kept his hands stiff at his sides—it told you everything you needed to know. He was unraveling. Slowly. And you were going to enjoy every second of it. The silence stretched between you like a taut wire.

Mark wasn’t watching the screen anymore. His body had gone still—unnaturally so—and you could feel every muscle locked beneath your cheek. His breathing had turned shallow.

You shifted again, just slightly, brushing your thigh a bit closer to his. His waistband was right there beneath your fingertips, and you let your nails drag lightly along the edge. Nothing blatant. Nothing he could really call you out on. But it was enough. Suddenly, Mark jolted upright, nearly knocking you off his chest.

“I—” he started, then stood up from the bed in one quick, jerky motion, his hand raking through his hair. “Look. You need to leave.” You blinked, sitting up slowly. “What?”

“Right now,” he said, his voice sharper than you’d ever heard it. “I’m serious.”

Your stomach flipped—not with fear, but heat. His cheeks were flushed, eyes darting anywhere but your face, and from where you were sitting, you could definitely see the stiff bulge straining against his jeans. He was hard. You had done that.

Still, you put on your best wounded expression, letting your eyes widen just enough. “Mark… what’s wrong? Did I—”

“You know what you’re doing,” he cut in, not quite meeting your gaze. “And I—I have a girlfriend. I can’t… we can’t…”

You stood slowly, brushing your hands over your thighs, letting the silence hang for just a second longer before you gave him a quiet, sheepish smile. “Okay,” you said softly. “If that’s what you want.” He nodded once, like he didn’t trust himself to say more.

You walked past him toward the door, the brush of your shoulder against his arm deliberate, slow. You paused in the doorway, glancing back at him over your shoulder. “I’m sorry,” you whispered. “Just… thought we were still us.” And then you left.

But not before catching the way his jaw clenched. Not before hearing him let out a long, shaky breath the second the door shut behind you. He was cracking. And cracks? Always led to breaks.

You didn’t go home right away.

You sat in your car across the street, hands resting on the steering wheel, heart still thudding—not from panic, but from something darker. Something deeper.

You got to him.

That flash of frustration in his voice. The way his eyes couldn’t stay on you. The tent in his jeans. All of it played on a loop in your mind, over and over again like your favorite scene in a movie. You bit your lip, let your head fall back against the seat, and smiled.

Still, you knew how to play the long game. You’d pushed far tonight, and now you needed to reel it back.

Control the narrative.

So you pulled out your phone and started typing.

[Y/N]: Hey… I just wanted to say I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable earlier. That really wasn’t my intention. I guess I got a little too casual, and I didn’t mean to cross any boundaries. I respect your relationship, Mark. Just… sorry.

You hit send before you could second-guess it. Short, sweet, remorseful. Just enough to seem genuine. The read receipt popped up almost immediately. Three blinking dots. Your heart jumped a little. Then his reply came:

[Mark]: Hey… no, it’s okay. I know you didn’t mean anything by it. I probably overreacted. It just caught me off guard, I guess. We’ve always been close, and I didn’t want things to feel weird between us.

[Mark]: So yeah. We’re good. Don’t worry about it.

You stared at the message for a long moment, then locked your phone and let it fall into your lap.

We’re good.

You could almost hear him saying it. You knew he meant it. He was too forgiving. Too soft with you. That’s why he’d always fall for girls like Amber—sweet, neat, easy. But you?

You knew him. Really knew him. In ways she never would. And if tonight proved anything… It was that his walls weren’t as high as he thought they were. You just had to be patient. Smile. Apologize. Play nice. Let him lower the drawbridge on his own. Because the next time you walked through it? You weren’t walking back out.

The next day, you didn’t text him.

You let him sit with your apology. Let him feel the silence a little. You knew him—knew how he’d turn it over in his head, wondering if he was the one who made it awkward. If he had hurt your feelings. Mark was soft like that. Honest. Guilt-driven.

And guilt always cracked the door open.

By the afternoon, your phone lit up with a text from him.

[Mark]: You still mad at me?

You stared at it for a beat, then typed:

[Y/N]: Nah. You were just being a good boyfriend. I respect that.

Another beat.

[Mark]: Still want to hang out tonight? Amber’s busy with some charity thing.

You smirked.

Of course she is.

[Y/N]: Sure. I’ll bring snacks. And I promise I’ll stay on my side of the bed.

[Mark]: Lol okay. Thanks.

You didn’t miss the little “thanks.” Like he was grateful you weren’t making it a big deal. Like he wanted things to go back to how they were. Or maybe… part of him missed it too.

When you got to his place that evening, he looked almost nervous opening the door. Hair a little messy, T-shirt soft and worn. You knew that shirt. He wore it when he was relaxed. Vulnerable. Guard lowered.

“Hey,” he said with a half-smile.

“Hey,” you replied, holding up a bag of chips and candy. “I come bearing peace offerings.”

He stepped aside to let you in, and you followed him into the living room. There was already a movie queued up—one you both liked. Safe. Familiar.

You sat beside him on the couch, close but not touching, your posture casual. He glanced at you a few times—like he wanted to say something, but couldn’t find the words.

Halfway through the movie, he finally spoke.

“Hey… I meant what I said. I don’t want things to be weird between us.”

You turned to him, giving him a soft, honest smile.

“They’re not weird, Mark. I promise.”

He held your gaze a second too long.

And even though you didn’t touch him that night, even though you kept your word and stayed on your side of the couch, you could feel it.

Something shifting.

You were still the best friend.

Still the safe one. At least he seemed to think so.

It started with a text.

[Mark]: You up?

You were already halfway to his place before he sent it.

When he opened the door, he looked exhausted. His hair was messy, eyes rimmed red, hoodie slung over his shoulders like he’d been pacing, unraveling. You stepped inside wordlessly, letting him close the door behind you. He didn’t even make it to the couch before he started talking.

“I forgot a patrol shift today. Cecil chewed me out. Then I missed dinner with Amber because I got called in late. She was pissed. Didn’t say it, but… I could tell. It’s always something.” You sat on the couch, tugging your hoodie tighter around your shoulders, listening. He started pacing again, dragging a hand through his hair.

“I don’t know how I’m supposed to do all this,” he muttered. “Be Invincible, be a student, be a boyfriend, be a good son—it’s like there’s no room left to just breathe.”

You let the silence hold for a beat, then said softly, “You’re allowed to not have it all together, Mark.” He stopped. His eyes met yours, and the frustration in them cracked—just for a second. And he slumped down beside you.

You reached over, pulled the small bottle of whiskey from your bag. No reason to pretend. You already knew he needed something to take the edge off.

He blinked at it. “You came prepared.”

You gave him a small, knowing smile. “You always text me when you’re close to burning out.” He didn’t argue. You passed the bottle between each other, the burn a welcome distraction. His body slouched more with each sip, eyes a little heavier, voice slower.

“She says I’m distant,” he muttered at one point, the bottle halfway empty. “Amber. I think I am. But I don’t mean to be. It’s just… this hero thing. It takes everything.” Your heart thumped a little harder. You nudged him lightly. “You shouldn’t have to explain yourself to someone who loves you.”

He glanced over at you. “You think so?”

“I know so.”

The moment stretched. You felt the shift—the silence turned soft. Intimate. His gaze lingered on yours, more vulnerable than you’d seen in weeks. And that’s when he leaned in. You didn’t stop him.

It was soft, clumsy, the kind of kiss you could almost chalk up to alcohol, to stress. But his lips moved like he meant it—like he needed it. Your hand slid to his cheek before he froze. His eyes opened, wide and panicked.

“Shit,” he whispered, pulling back. “Y/N—shit, I didn’t mean—” You pulled your hand back fast, eyes wide with perfectly measured guilt. “I… I’m sorry. That was—God, I didn’t think you—”

“I have a girlfriend,” he said, almost like he was trying to remind himself.

“I know,” you said, biting your lip and looking down. “That’s why we should forget it happened.” He looked away, jaw tense. The guilt was already settling into his shoulders, thick and heavy.

You stood, grabbing your bag. “I’ll go. I shouldn’t have stayed so late. I’m sorry.” He didn’t stop you. Didn’t even look at you as you left.

But later that night? You lay in bed, the ghost of his lips still tingling on yours, and smiled. You didn’t need to push him. Not yet. The guilt would do it for you.

Mark didn’t text the next day.

Or the day after that.

It wasn’t surprising—not really. He was probably drowning in guilt, pacing in his room, avoiding eye contact with Amber, wondering if he initiated it, or if you had. Wondering if it meant something… or if it was just a mistake.

You let him stew.

You didn’t reach out.

You let the silence bloom into something heavy—noticeable. Until he felt it. Until the absence of you became its own kind of punishment.

On the third day, the dam cracked.

[Mark]: Hey… can we talk?

You waited twenty minutes before responding. Just long enough for him to start doubting if you would.

[Y/N]: Of course.

You met at the usual place—his bedroom. Not a coffee shop. Not a park. His space. Where he felt safest. Where you had always felt closest.

He looked like hell when he opened the door. Pale. Tired. Guilt hanging from him like a weighted hoodie.

“Hey,” you said gently, stepping inside. “You okay?”

“No,” he said honestly. “I haven’t been.”

You sat on the edge of his bed while he paced again, hands running through his hair. It was like déjà vu—only now you were the calm one. Steady. Watching him unravel.

“I’m sorry,” he said, stopping in front of you. “For the kiss. I don’t know what the hell I was thinking.”

You didn’t look up right away. Just gave a little nod. “It’s okay.”

“It’s not,” he insisted. “Amber’s been nothing but good to me, and you—God, Y/N, you’ve been my best friend for years. I shouldn’t have let that happen.”

You raised your eyes slowly. “I didn’t let anything happen, Mark.”

He blinked. “I mean—I didn’t mean it like that.”

“I know.” Your voice softened, eyes searching his face. “You’re overwhelmed. You’re human. You needed someone.”

He sat beside you, hands wringing in his lap.

You didn’t touch him.

You didn’t need to.

Not yet.

Instead, you leaned forward, elbows on your knees. “Do you love her?”

The question knocked the air out of him.

He stared at the floor. “I… yeah. I think so.”

“But?”

He swallowed. “But I don’t know if she really gets it. The superhero thing. The pressure. The secrecy. It’s not her fault, but sometimes I feel like I’m living two different lives—and she only fits into one of them.”

You stayed silent. Letting that sink in. Letting him say it.

He glanced at you then. “You always know what to say.”

You gave him a small smile. “That’s what best friends are for, right?”

He nodded. But something in his face twisted—confused, conflicted. His knee brushed yours and he didn’t move away.

“I don’t want things to change,” he said quietly. “Not with us.”

You leaned just close enough that he could smell your perfume.

“They haven’t.”

But they had. You both knew it.

And now?

Every minute he spent thinking about that kiss—about you—was another thread unraveling between him and Amber.

You wouldn’t have to pull.

He was already coming apart.