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He never expected to meet someone like her, someone who muddied his intuition, made him soft and weak and powerless with the touch of a hand or a heartfelt request. He never thought he’d be thrown into this hurricane, spinning in the eye of the storm with all of its thrills and dejections.
Within just a few weeks he found himself staring for a little too long, thinking about her a little too much, admiring the way her eyes crinkled when she laughed or how mesmerizing her hair looked when the light caught it just right. She was beautiful and kind and interesting, a bright patch of light after a rough few years.
But he was a fighter, not a lover, so shame crept in and left no room for questions. He was here to focus, to help people. He didn’t have time for this and he didn’t want the flutter in his stomach that appeared whenever she was around.
It’ll pass. He told himself, and really, truly believed it.
It’ll pass. He sat at her bedside when a too-close call out in the field left her with a concussion.
It’ll pass. She took him in her arms and brought him soaring high above the clouds, showing him the world from a whole new point of view.
It’ll pass. He told her his name, trusted her with every part of who he was.
The lines between friendship and something more blurred and sharpened constantly, the rules always changing and always leaving someone drowning in uncertainty. They cared immensely for each other, that much was clear, but anytime she tried to take even a small step forward he’d leap back like he’d been burned.
It’ll pass. It has to pass.
Years went by, they laughed and fought and learned and grew together. Her eyes began to linger on him, glinting with something he chose to ignore. It was difficult, though, when she stood close enough that he could feel the heat that radiated from her body, when she'd walk back from the shower in just a loosely draped towel, when they’d spar and she’d look at him with a playful grin as she finally claimed victory, leaving him dumbstruck on the floor as she held him down.
By that point the lies were the most routine part of his day — her chest swelling with each breath did not draw his eyes, her hands pinning his wrists to the training mat did not spike his pulse, her thighs pressed to either side of his hips did not cause heat to pool deep inside him, and he was definitely not fighting the urge to pull her down with him and find out how good her full lips felt against his.
No, none of those things were true. If they were then he’d have to do something about it, decide whether to acknowledge the desire that churned beneath the surface or to quell it. Either way, it would change things between them.
He’d lie in bed and wonder what was wrong with him, why he couldn’t end this pattern of indecision and headache and heartbreak. Maybe he was a masochist, and what he really liked was how badly it hurt to push her away. Maybe he’d lived with an ache in his chest for so long that he didn’t know how to survive without one.
She’s your friend.
I shouldn’t.
We can’t.
He'd chant to himself in the late hours of the night, when he’d wake from yet another dream that left a shiver in his core and a sheen of sweat on his skin.
She’s your best friend.
With eyes squeezed shut he’d turn onto his side, curl into the blankets and try to pour every thought from his head until there was nothing left. No hunger or longing or feelings for beautiful alien girls who knew him better than anyone ever had.
Finally he’d drift back to sleep, colors and shapes and sounds filling his unconscious mind until they started to change, shifting into something golden and curved and moaning as he pressed soft kisses against the smooth plane of her stomach, along her hip bone, then lower, lower…
With a gasp his eyes would snap open once again, heart pounding and body taut with desire. In the feverish haze his self-restraint would finally crack, fingers reaching for his waistband to find some desperate measure of relief.
He’d try to get his mind off her, to think of anyone or anything else, but there was a part of him he kept as a hushed and guilty secret that wanted to know how faithful those dreams were to reality. What it would feel like to be above her, beneath her, inside her. To know exactly how to make her feel good.
Maybe he wasn’t alone in this. Maybe right now she was in her room with a hand slipped beneath the sheets too, thinking thoughts just like his, breath catching just like his. If he were a better person, he wouldn’t imagine the things he’d say if he were there with her. He wouldn't wonder how satiny her skin would feel as he traced a path between her legs, replacing her hand with his own. He wouldn’t let the idea of pushing her over the edge send him over too, moonlit euphoria pulsing through his veins.
As the air around him cooled, he'd come down from the high and lie to himself again.
I’m gonna tell her how I feel. I really am.
He'd sit with her at breakfast the next morning and think that he must love her. What he felt was bone-deep. Something more than just physical, more than just emotional.
He'd sit with her at breakfast, and know that he was a coward who'd never say a word. His whole life he'd been a fighter, stubborn and determined to resist until the bitter end whether he wanted to or not.
He only hoped that maybe one day he could learn to be a lover too.