Always You: Falling for my Best Friend

I never believed in fate.

But sometimes, I wondered if the universe was laughing at me.

Especially the night Stephan Miller kissed me—and everything changed.

The first time I met him, I was twelve. He was the new boy in town, all sharp smiles and reckless charm. Our dads worked together, so our families quickly became close.

By sixteen, Stephan was my best friend.

He teased me constantly, called me ridiculous nicknames, stole my fries, and copied my homework. But he also saw me—really saw me. When something upset me, he was the first to notice, the first to pull me aside, the first to make me laugh.

That was the thing about Stephan. He knew me.

By seventeen, I had realized a terrifying truth: I loved him.

It wasn’t fireworks. It wasn’t sudden. It was slower than that—quieter. It wasn’t the kind of love that came suddenly, like a lightning strike. It was slow, creeping, settling into my bones before I even had the chance to fight it.

It was there in the way my heart stumbled when he smiled at me, in the way I memorized the gold flecks in his hazel eyes, in the way I never let myself hope for more.

I never let myself hope. Not really.

Because Stephan belonged to everyone. The girls at school adored him. His name was whispered like a secret in crowded hallways. I told myself it didn’t matter.

But there were nights like this one—Friday movie nights in his basement, just the two of us, where the world outside didn’t exist. Where he let his guard down in a way he never did with anyone else.

The screen flickered in the dark, casting soft light over his face. A song played in the background—something slow, something that tugged at the edges of nostalgia. I didn’t know the name, but later, I would never forget it.

Because that was the moment Stephan pulled me closer.

His arm around my shoulders wasn’t new. Neither was the way my head rested against him. But this time, when I tilted my face up, he was already watching me.

My breath caught.

“Laura,” he murmured, like a question, like a secret.

His gaze dropped to my lips, and for a heartbeat, I wondered if I was imagining things, or if I was living out one of my dreams. But then, slowly, he leaned in, giving me the time and opportunity to push him away. I didn’t. His lips met mine, and he kissed me.

Soft. Careful. Like a question.

My lips tingled with popcorn salt and something far sweeter. My heart slammed in my chest. His hand barely touched my arm, but it scorched.

I kissed him back.

The air shifted. The movie faded. The world fell away. There was only him—his breath, his touch, the quiet sound he made when I moved closer.

It was hesitant and holy.

When he finally pulled back, his eyes searched mine like he was afraid of what he might see.

I couldn’t speak. Couldn’t move.

Because it wasn’t just a kiss. It was a confession.

He shifted, just slightly, putting space between us. “We should, uh…finish the movie,” he said, his voice rough.

I nodded. Pretended like my world hadn’t just shifted on its axis.

But that night changed everything. Even if we pretended it didn’t.

We never talked about that first kiss—not until one night on the roof, when he finally said he thought about it all the time.

Then he kissed me again. Like we were the only two people in the world. Like the stars were watching, holding their breath for us.

That second kiss was fire. Desperate and consuming. His fingers tangled in my hair, his mouth crashing into mine. It was heat, breath, tongue—a shudder through my body. Every feeling I’d buried crashed over me, too much and not enough. I melted into him. Let him press me down against the roof, tasting mint, wine, and Stephan.

Then his father called his name.

We froze. And reality slipped in like cold air between us.

Stephan whispered a curse and rested his forehead against mine. He didn’t want to stop. But he did. He had to. He disappeared back down the stairs, and I stayed there, heart racing.

The next day, he acted like nothing happened.

He was the same—loud, teasing, charming. But there was a flicker in his eyes now. Something unspoken. Still, he kissed another girl that week. In front of me. And it cracked something open.

We never talked about it. Not after that night. Not even after the second kiss, or the third. We just…kept being best friends. With secrets pressed between us like folded notes we were too scared to open.

That was what made it worse.

Every time he smiled at someone else, every time he kissed another girl like I hadn’t felt his mouth on mine just days before—it cracked something in me I didn’t know how to fix.

But I never told him to stop. I couldn’t.

I tried to pull away. Told myself I needed space. But Stephan never let me. He knew how to reel me back in—with our favorite movies, our old jokes, our familiar rhythm.

And then one day, he defended me. A guy made a crude comment, and Stephan snapped. He shoved him, growled a threat, and when I touched his arm to calm him, he looked wrecked—like the thought of someone hurting me destroyed him. That moment didn’t feel like friendship.

From then on, there were more kisses. In the car. In his house. Under the stars. Never talked about, never explained. Just heat and gravity.

I told myself it didn’t mean anything—that I didn’t care when he kissed other girls too. But I did. I hated the way he could kiss me one moment and flirt with someone else the next. I hated pretending it didn’t hurt.

But when he called, I answered. When he asked me to come over, I went. Because I loved being with him. Because I didn’t know how to stay away.

Then came prom.

We didn’t have dates. I wasn’t surprised I didn’t. But Stephan could’ve had anyone.

So when he turned to me one evening, lazily tossing a piece of popcorn into his mouth, and said, “Come with me to prom,” I nearly choked on my drink.

I wiped my lips, forcing out a laugh. “Very funny.”

“I’m serious,” he said, looking at me, really looking at me, like this was obvious. “You’re my best friend. There’s no one else I’d rather spend the night with.”

He said it so casually.

We danced. We laughed. He made me feel like the center of the universe. And for a few hours, I let myself believe he felt some part of what I felt too.

When the night ended, he leaned in and whispered, “Let’s get out of here.”

I should’ve said no. Should’ve reminded him we were just friends.

But I didn’t.

Because I wasn’t ready to let go. Because I’d rather lose myself in him than keep wondering what if.

His house was empty.

His parents were away for work that weekend, and the moment the door clicked shut behind us, the atmosphere shifted.

We barely spoke. I barely breathed.

Stephan pulled me into him in a single, fluid motion, and I melted. It was like we had our perfect bubble when no one was around—just us, just this—and I loved it.

His lips were soft but demanding, his hands careful but firm. He kissed me like he had been holding back, like he had been waiting for this just as much as I had.

We stumbled toward his bedroom, our lips never breaking apart. My back hit the mattress, and suddenly, I wasn’t scared. Not of this. Not with him.

I just wanted him.

His hands roamed as if they’d been waiting for this moment all along, tracing my arms, cupping my face, gliding down my neck, then gripping my waist to pull me closer. The heat of his erection pressed against me, and warmth bloomed low in my belly—a hunger I had buried for years but now welcomed without hesitation.

Stephan’s mouth found my jaw, then my throat, his hands brushing the straps of my dress aside. His lips followed the path of his fingers, leaving goosebumps in their wake.

He knew I was a virgin. He had asked me about it before—not in judgment, just curiosity. I had never been saving myself, but I had never found the right moment, the right person. But losing it to my best friend? How perfect could that be?

I nodded.

He peeled away my dress with a patience that made my body tremble. Every touch was gentle. Every kiss deliberate.

When his lips wrapped around my nipple, I gasped, arching into him, heat pooling between my legs. His hand slipped lower, fingers teasing me, coaxing me into a pleasure I had never known. And then his mouth followed.

My breath caught as his lips pressed against the most intimate part of me. A moan escaped my lips before I could stop it, and when I dared to look down, his hazel eyes were locked onto mine. There was something wicked in his smirk before he flicked his tongue, and I broke.