It's never easy to fall asleep in this house.

It hasn't been for years. Maybe my whole life, I don't know. I can't remember a time where my mom and dad were happy; they're always at odds with each other. They stopped trying to stay civil around me when I was about 9 years old, and it's only escalated since.

I can't picture the last time they smiled at each other. Or me, for that matter. That's the last thing on my mind at the moment, though. I don't care about how they feel towards each other, or even how they feel towards me right now. I care about going to sleep.

That's not so easy when I can hear the ins and outs of their latest fight through the vent on the floor of my room.

"You don't ever load the dishwasher the right way," Dad says, and I hear dishes clanking as he presumably fixes what Mom has done wrong.

"Oh god, arrest me," she snaps. "At least it's done."

"It's not that hard to figure out. The bowls and cups go on top. The plates and pans go on the bottom. It's simple, Linda. It's common sense."

"It's banal, Keith. Leave it alone. Sorry I'm not aware of your special little formula."

"Maybe you would be if you were home more often," Dad quips.

There's a strained silence. I close my eyes - pinch them shut, actually - and brace myself for the explosion that will inevitably come. I inherited my mother's temper.

"But then where would you get the money to buy all the stupid shit that you do, then?" she spits. "Surely, you don't make enough."

"Stupid shit?!" he bellows in return. "You're kidding, right? You just came home with a pair of shoes that cost more than the mortgage on this house!"

I can feel my face muscles tightening. Their voices continue to get louder, digging into my brain. My heart starts to beat faster, and I want to burst out of my own skin. I hate hearing them fight. I feel like I'm standing right in the middle of it, like I used to when they'd scream over my head as a kid.

Whenever they fight, I turn back into that kid.

"I earned those shoes," Mom slings back. "Did you earn that grill outside? Or the KitchenAide?"

"I use both of those things to cook for Beca and me," he says. "When you're not here. I use them to take care of our daughter."

"Don't say it like that," Mom says. "I know exactly what you're thinking."

"I'm not thinking shit," he claims.

"You think I'm not around enough for her!" she shouts, and I can't take it anymore.

I throw my covers off and leave my bed unmade. In the dark, I make my way to the closet and pull out my sneakers, slipping them on along with my fall jacket. I grab my phone, my backpack with everything I need for school tomorrow inside, then yank open my window that leads out to the sloped roof.

I get one leg out easily, then the other. I'm not new at this by any means, but it's not like I do it every night. I take special care to shut the window and slide down the roof tiles slowly, then land silently on the grass once I reach the end.

Before jetting off, I look over my shoulder back at the house. The kitchen is lit up and I can easily see my mom and dad standing on opposite sides of the island, mouths moving dramatically as they fight a battle gone silent.

…

My best friend's house isn't far from mine. It's in the same neighborhood, just a few streets over. No one else is out at this time of night, so I have some time to think out in the cool air. It's not like I want to, though. I don't like to let my feelings stew. Nothing good ever comes of that.

When I get to his house, I skillfully climb up the pipe on the side and hoist myself onto the balcony that hangs off his room. I hoist my backpack a little higher, then knock on the slider door three times.

After a few moments, he still doesn't answer. So, I knock again. This time, a bit harder.

I hear movement after that and let out a sigh of relief. The last thing I wanted was to be stranded out here, or worse, have to return to my house and sneak back into my room.

When Jesse answers, his hair is sticking up pointing every which way, his eyes half-open and bleary. He rubs them with one fist when he says, "Bec?'

"Hey," I say, completely clear and awake. "Can I come in?"

He doesn't hesitate before answering with, "Sure, yeah."

He moves out of the way and I slip off my shoes, listening to him lock back up after I'm inside. He doesn't speak at first - he doesn't need to. He knows why I'm here; it's not the first time I've sought solace at his house, and it won't be the last.

"Were they fighting?" he asks, after a considerable amount of time has passed. I already got my shoes off and laid my backpack in the corner, now in the middle of tying my hair into a messy bun when he asks the question.

"Yep," I answer, clipped.

"You wanna talk about it?"

"Nope."

I hear him sigh through the darkness. "You sure?" he asks.

I scrub my hands over my face, feeling the exhaustion hit me like a forceful wave. "I just wanna go to sleep," I say. "I have a test tomorrow, first block."

"They're gonna worry about where you are, you know."

"I don't give a shit," I say, a hint of desperation in my voice. I let out another sigh. "Do you want me to take the floor tonight?"

"Nah. I will."

"No, stop," I say, holding up a palm. "Just stay. I don't care if we share a bed, do you?"

"No," he says, then clears his throat. "Hold on. Let me clear a spot."

"What, is your R2D2 stuffed animal in the way?"

He throws something across the room and it lands with a soft thud. "Uh, maybe," he mumbles. "But not anymore."

"Idiot."

"Okay, go ahead. All yours. Come on in."

I lie flat and pull the covers up, snuggling into the pillow while turned on my side away from him. As tired as I am, though, my eyes won't close. All I can think about is that fight, and I don't know why. It's not like it was much different than the thousands I've heard before. My parents always fight about their jobs, time, money, and me. I'm not unused to hearing my name thrown into their sparring matches, but for some reason it cut deep tonight.

I hate letting it affect me, but I can't help it. My chest hurts with how forcefully I'm holding back tears, and when I take a sharp inhale, that knot untangles by just enough and a tear slips out. It drips over the bridge of my nose and onto my opposite cheek, and I wipe it away with a hasty sniffle.

I squeeze my eyes closed to try and stop it, but it doesn't help. I never cry, so once the gates are open, it's hard to close them.

"Bec?" Jesse says, very gently.

I flip over in one fluid motion, now facing him. I can't look him in the eyes, though. The last time he saw me cry was probably when we were toddlers. Past that age, it was always me making him cry.

But not tonight. Right now, I don't have any biting sarcasm or quippy jokes to smooth over this situation. Instead, all I can do is press my face into his chest so he can't see my ugly crying expression, then hug his side. He hugs me back, comfortingly rubbing his palm up and down my spine to try and soothe me.

"It's okay," he whispers, jaw moving against the top of my head. "I'm sorry, Bec."

I shake my head, still trying to ward off these stupid tears. I don't think I can speak right now, it would come out a jumbled mess.

"Was it really bad?" he asks, after a few minutes have gone by.

I nod and wipe my nose with the back of my hand, shoulders still trembling with sobs. I can't stop thinking about how much I hate my parents and all they've put me through. I shouldn't have to have an escape plan from my own house. I know there's a ton of people out there who have it way worse than me, but I'm not thinking about them right now. I'm thinking about myself and my own sucky life.

"Jesus," he says. "I hate this for you. I'm so sorry."

"You don't have to apologize," I say. "It's not your fault."

"I know, but…"

"No," I say, blinking hard to push the tears out of my vision. "Stop. You're the only one who's ever given a shit about me."

"Well, yeah," he says. "I love you, dude. From the womb 'til the tomb."

"I told you to stop saying that," I mutter, but it gets me to laugh.

"Huh. Must've forgotten."

I chuckle again, still waterlogged from my crying session. "This sucks," I say, and notice that he's still rubbing my back. I don't call attention to it; I don't want him to stop.

"Go to sleep," he says, as his hand movement stills.

I wait a second to see if he'll resume, but he stops entirely. I furrow my eyebrows and glance up, seeing that his eyes have closed.

"Jess?" I say, and they pop back open.

"Hmm."

"I'll go to sleep if you keep doing that hand-rubby-thingy on my back," I say, quiet and super-sweet.

He rolls his eyes and lets out a giant sigh, but picks up where he'd left off.

I fall asleep within seconds.

…

The next morning, I wake up to the alarm on Jesse's phone going off full blast. It's not necessarily loud, but it's annoying right next to me on the nightstand, so I reach over and tap the screen until the sound stops.

Once the room is silent again, I lay my head back down. That's when I realize that I'm not laying on a pillow, but on my best friend's chest. His heart is beating strong under my cheek, the covers are tangled around both of our waists, and our hands are all over each other's bodies.

He's on his back, one arm around my shoulders, holding me close. I don't think we've ever been this close. I have one hand resting on his stomach, which is way firmer than I remember, and a leg thrown over both of his. Holy shit.

I can't stop looking at him, eyes wide open. I let them drift over his face and lower, until I catch sight of something that I can't look away from.

There's a bulge in his pants that I can only assume is a boner, and I can't stop staring. My hand rests only inches above it, and if I skimmed any lower I would inevitably touch it. I stay where I am, though. I don't want to touch it. Do I? No. No, I don't.

His alarm goes off again, and this time it makes him stir. His hand tightens on my shoulder, pulling me even closer, and he takes a deep inhale with his nose right in my hair.

"Mmm…" he hums, and turns onto his side to face me.

As he does, though, the boner in question turns too. And it presses itself right between my thighs, much too close for platonic comfort, and I let out an involuntary sound of surprise.

"Jesus, shit!" Jesse exclaims, eyes flying open as he suddenly realizes what's going on. "Shit, shit, shit!"

He climbs over me and clambers off the bed, half bent over, covering himself with his hands.

"It's fine," I say, trying to smooth over the situation as a rosy blush paints itself on my cheeks. "It's fine, Jess, I know it happens to guys in the morning. It's fine."

"It is not fine!" he says, turning around so his back faces me. "This is the furthest thing from fine that has ever happened!"

"Dude, calm down!" I say, sitting up in his bed with my arms behind me. "You're giving me a headache, god. I just woke up."

"I… I have to get in the shower," he says, shaking his head. "I'll be quick. You can get in after me. I just… I gotta… I can't stand here and talk to you like this."

"With a raging hard-on?" I say, teasing him.

"Shut up," he grumbles.

"Better go take care of that, boner town," I call, cupping one hand around my mouth.

"Shut up!" he shouts back.

"If you were a DJ, you'd be DJ Snake," I say.

"I am going to murder you, Beca."

I collapse in laughter, falling onto my back with my arms out wide. After I hear the water turn on, I roll onto my side and sigh, the smile fading from my face. I'm happy where I am, right here, right now, but that changes when thoughts of last night come rushing back.

I cover my eyes with one hand and groan, remembering that I cried in front of Jesse. There's not really anyone else in the world who I'd do that for, but I still hate that I got emotional. Apathy is pretty much my thing. Bottling up feelings is my strong suit.

Last night, they apparently all came exploding out.

I get out of bed slowly, stretching as I go, and wrap my arms around myself as I push open the door to the bathroom attached to Jesse's room.

"Hey, Je-"

"Dude! Get out!" he yells, and I hear the clatter of bottles falling in the shower.

"Would you take a breath?" I say.

"I can't handle anything else this morning," he says. "First the boner, now you're in the shower with me."

"Shut your mouth, the curtain's closed. All I'm doing is standing here. I just want to talk to you."

"Fine," he says, then peeks out of the shower curtain so his head is all I can see. No body. Just sudsy hair on top of a dripping face. "What's up?"

"I can't take you serious like that," I say, smirking while looking down. "Don't look at me. I can't say it if you look at me."

"Alright," he says, then retreats. "Spit it out."

"I just wanted to say thanks. For uh, taking me in last night, and stuff."

"It's not like it's the first time," he says. "Won't be the last."

"Thank you for pointing that out."

"Not in a bad way!" he claims. "I know things aren't… that good at home right now."

"Or ever."

"Well… yeah," he says. "But you don't have to thank me, Bec. I don't wanna hear that."

"But still, I was crying like a baby last night," I continue. "That was fucked up. You shouldn't have to hear all that shit, you didn't sign up for it."

He pops his head out of the shower again and I roll my eyes.

"I didn't 'sign up' for anything, and neither did you," he says. "Best friends deal with each other's shit. 'Cause it's not shit. And I'm not 'dealing' with you, you happen to be my favorite person ever. It's not an obligation. You're making it sound like it's torture, but I don't give a shit if you cry."

"Well, I do," I say. "I hate it. It's stupid and pointless."

"It's a release," he says. "It's good for you. Maybe you should do it more often."

"What, like on command?"

He laughs. "I could sock the shit out of you, see if that would make you cry."

"Try it, and I'll kick you right in your DJ Snake," I growl. He cracks up and I roll my eyes again. "Finish your stupid shower," I say. "You're taking forever."

I leave the bathroom and walk back into his room, rifling through my backpack for my phone to plug it in. I need a little charge for the school day. When it comes back to life, I see that I have a ton of missed calls and messages from both my mom and dad.

"Shit," I say, then click the screen off so it's black again.

I don't bother with reading the texts, let alone listening to the voicemails. It doesn't take a rocket scientist to know what they said. I left the house without asking, without telling them where I went. They're probably pretty sure where I ended up, Jesse's my only close friend, but they love to get on my ass about stupid stuff. It makes it seem like they actually give a shit about me.

Jesse comes out a few minutes later with one towel around his waist and another on his head. I raise my eyebrows in question, and all he does is laugh.

"It's good for conditioning," he says. "Less frizz."

"Sure," I say, nodding. "Whatever you say, John Frieda. I'm getting in the shower now."

…

The school day passes slowly, which pisses me off. I try and forget about everything so I can concentrate on my schoolwork, but that's easier said than done. I space out in all of my classes and trudge through the day with heavy shoulders.

After the last bell rings, Jesse finds me near the main entrance and slings an arm around my shoulders. "Hey, Bec," he says, peering into my face. "Y'alright?"

I just shrug.

"I'm gonna take that as a no," he says. "Wanna talk?"

I glare and sigh loudly, which warrants an understanding nod from him.

"Gotcha," he says. "Want a ride, then?"

I nod, then ask, "Can we go out for ice cream?" I pause for a moment before adding, "I don't want to go home yet."

"Sure," he says. "I'm never gonna turn down ice cream. The day I do, that's when you know something's wrong."

I force a smile. He deserves more than that, but it's all I can muster at the moment.

We spend as much time at the ice cream parlor as we can before Jesse has to leave for choir practice.

"Do you really have to go today?" I ask, trudging beside him on the way to the car. "Can't you skip? We can do homework at your place."

"You can't avoid your parents forever," he says, reading my mind. I shy away with burning cheeks. "They probably think you died. And no, I can't skip. I skipped last Thursday so we could hang, and the guys wanted to kill me." He shakes his head. "You know I love you, Bec, but I can't."

"Fine," I say, getting in the car. When we get to my house, we sit idly in the driveway as I stare ahead. Suddenly, it seems bigger than it ever has before. I turn to Jesse to find him already watching me, then say, "Can you come in, just for a second? I don't think they'll scream at me right away if you're there."

His eyes search mine, but he doesn't argue. "Alright," he says. "But I can only stay for a second. I'm already gonna be late as it is."

"Thanks," I say, and let him lead the way up the front path as if this isn't my house.

We walk in the front door and immediately, without a second passing, I hear my mother's screeching voice. "Rebeca Jade Mitchell!"

I cross my arms and glower, prepared for the worst. She appears in the foyer and spots Jesse, but that doesn't slow her down by any means. I should've known. Jesse has been around too long for him to count as a guest anymore.

"We've been worried sick about you, young lady," she says, her face crimson. "We almost called the police. Luckily, we thought to call Jesse first, and he told us where you were last night."

I turn to him, eyes wide. "You ratted me out?" I sputter.

He gapes like a fish, mouth wide open, palms up in surrender. "Dude, I'm sorry. They were so worried. It was the right thing to do."

"No, it wasn't," I argue.

"Yes, it was," Dad says, walking in with a deep frown on his face. "It was the right thing, and you could learn a thing or two about that. Leaving without telling us? Sneaking out of your window and walking through the neighborhood in the middle of the night? Jesus, Bec! You could've been killed."

I roll my eyes and say, "That's a little much."

"Watch your tone, young lady," Mom says.

"Watch yours!" I say, not balking. "I'm not fighting with you. You guys fight enough with each other, you're not gonna involve me, too."

Dad blinks hard. "Don't talk to your mother that way."

"Maybe you should take your own advice," I spit.

"That's it," he says. "No car for a week. And you can't see him-" Dad nods towards Jesse. "Until further notice."

"Dad!" I exclaim, throwing my hands up as I raise my voice. "You can't do that!"

"I just did," he says. "Jesse, it's not anything you did. Please, don't take this the wrong way."

I look at Jesse, and though I'm pissed at him for narcing to my parents, I can't imagine not seeing him whenever I want.

"Jess," I say. I don't know what to say that won't make me sound desperate or needy, but I feel like I need to fill this space with something.

"It's fine," he says, meeting my eyes meaningfully. "I'm sorry, Bec. I didn't mean to… I don't know."

"I… I…" I stammer.

"I think it was about time you got going," my mom says, ushering Jesse out the door. "We'll see you soon, sweetie."

As he turns to leave, he takes one last look at me before he goes. He raises one hand in a wave, and I do my best to return it. Of course, I'll see him at school, but only in passing. We don't have any classes together or the same lunch. I've never felt more alone.

Once the door closes, my mom goes to touch my arm but I rip it out of her grasp. "I hate you," I say, storming up the stairs. "I hate you both!"

I get to the top after stomping the whole way and throw my door open. Before flopping onto my bed, I slam the door shut and hope they can feel the animosity between us.

…

Tonight is no different than any other night preceding it.

"You shouldn't have punished her so harshly. Did you see her face? She hates us. She meant what she said," Mom says, her voice drifting up through the vent.

"She didn't mean it," Dad says. "She's a teenager. Teenagers say shit like that all the time. Don't you remember how it was?"

"Of course I do. I just never thought that my daughter would look me in the face and say it to me. We said we were gonna talk it out. What happened to that? You just slammed down the iron fist and called it a day. What about my input?"

"You don't know the way she works," Dad says.

"I know my daughter."

"Not like I do," he insists. "When she has an idea in her mind, she doesn't listen to anyone. No matter what. Talking to her in that state would've been talking like a brick wall." Pause. "Kinda like talking to when you're upset."

"That's nice, Keith."

"It was a joke. Come on."

"It wasn't," Mom says, her tone clipped. "I know the way you 'joke.' You really think that's true, don't you?"

"Jesus, Linda," he groans. "Stop stirring the pot. I'm not fighting with you tonight."

"Yet you're trying to start something!" she says, growing louder.

I press my eyes shut tight and bury my head in the covers, trying to concentrate on the sound of my own breathing instead of the rise and fall of their voices. It's nearly impossible, though, and I've never wanted to sneak out more. But I know for a fact that they'll check my room later, and if they find me gone again, I'm dead.

So, I do the next best thing. I reach for my phone in the dark and it lights up the fort I've made when I turn it on, and I find Jesse's contact immediately. I don't bother with texting; instead, I just call.

He answers on the first ring. "Hello?"

"Hey," I say, trying to keep quiet. "I didn't wake you up, did I?"

"No," he says. "I was kinda almost waiting for you to call."

"Oh," I say, smiling softly.

"I mean, I figured if you weren't gonna show up at my window, you'd probably call," he says, then chuckles. "You miss me?"

"Shut up, no," I say. "I…"

It's harder than I imagined to admit aloud that my parents are screaming at each other downstairs and I need solace. I open my mouth to say the words, but they won't come out.

"I had a bad dream about you. I just wanted to make sure you're okay."

"Hmm," he says, and I know he doesn't believe me. But because he's Jesse, he doesn't call me out. "I'm here in one piece. All I can ask for."

"Yeah."

He pauses for a moment, then asks, "What about you? Are you okay?"

"Yeah, I'm fine," I lie.

"Bec."

"What?"

"Beca."

"What?!"

"You're calling me past midnight just to tell me that you're fine?"

"I told you, I had a bad dream about you. I needed confirmation that you're alive. Also, I'm still pissed at you. So, don't go getting back on my bad side."

He sighs. "If you wanna talk, I'm right here. And I said I was sorry. I just felt pressured. I can't lie, you know I'm a shit liar."

"I know," I say. "I just…" I inhale, prepared to launch into a diatribe, but I pull back. "I know."

He doesn't respond. I think he's waiting for me to unleash my sob story, but I don't see the point. He already knows why I called, or at least he can assume. I don't need to get into the details of how their fighting makes me feel. Of course, it makes me feel shitty. And on edge. And anxious. And sometimes, even sick. But what does it matter? What good will talking do? It's not like anything will change.

"I'm gonna try and sleep now," I say, giving up. I don't know why I called at all. I thought it was the next best thing to actually being with him, but it only made me feel lonelier.

"Alright," he says. "If you need anything, just call back. I'll keep my ringer on loud."

…

"But if you had to pick. Paranormal Activity 1, 2, 3, or 4? Or 5, Marked Ones? Or 6, Ghost Dimension?"

"That's too many fucking Paranormal Activities, and they all suck."

"Lies and slander!" he exclaims.

"Jess, that's six shitty movies. The story was finished with number one. I'll give you that… the first one was pretty okay. I hated both the actors, but it's whatever. You told me there wasn't even a planned sequel until they made all that money, and it totally showed! All that stuff tying together by the end was a fucking reach."

"It was not. You just kept falling asleep. You didn't absorb everything."

"The backs of my eyelids were way more interesting than that demon fucking with everyone."

"He has a name, you know."

"As if I can remember it!"

"Well, I'm not gonna say it out loud. Who knows if he's listening."

I snort. "You are so st-"

"Jesus Christ, Keith! I can't catch a single break, can I? I go to work, I'm the bad guy. I stay home, I'm the bad guy. Just tell me what you fucking want! How in the world would you like me to please you?!"

I go silent, cutting myself off in the middle of a sentence. My mom's voice got so loud that I know Jesse heard it, because he's gone quiet, too.

"Sorry," I mutter, closing my eyes.

"Is it bad?" he asks.

I don't hesitate before answering, "They're both home. What do you think?" I sigh softly. "Of course it's bad."

"I'm sorry, Bec," he says.

I shrug, though he can't see me.

"What can I do?"

I sigh, picking at a thread on my comforter. "I don't know," I say, then laugh humorlessly. "Sneak out your window, climb down the roof, walk across the neighborhood in the middle of the night, climb up the side of my house and come distract me?"

"Alright," he says, and I hear rustling sounds like he's getting up out of bed.

"Wait, Jess," I say. "I was kidding, I was just-"

"I can be there in ten. Unlock your window."

"Jesse!"

He hangs up before I can protest any further, so I get up and stand at the window to wait for him. He appears down the street in just the amount of time he said he would, wearing pajamas (stupid Star Wars pants and an old choir t-shirt) and carting his backpack.

I watch him scale the house in the same manner I used to climb down it, and open my window once he reaches it.

"You are fucking insane," I hiss, helping him inside. "You did not have to do that. I was kidding!"

"Well, I wasn't," he says, a little out of breath.

"Yeah, I can see that," I say. "You're standing right in front of me like the psycho you are."

He smiles that crooked smile, and I can't help but soften a bit. "Come on," he says. "I'm tired. My best friend keeps me up at night with her phone calls. I need to get some sleep."

"I fucking hate you."

"Love you, too."

He kicks off his shoes and sets his backpack in the corner, then gets settled on the side of my bed I don't sleep on. Wordlessly, I wonder how he knew what side to lay on, but I don't ask anything aloud. I crawl in beside him, realizing for the first time how much I'd been craving his body heat, and get comfortable.

"Ahh, this is nice," he says, snuggling his head onto the one pillow that we have to share.

"You're a bed hog."

"Shhhh."

I smile to myself and turn around so my back is against his chest, then close my eyes. Just as I'm about to drift off, though, there's a loud crash downstairs that sounds like something broke, then the sound of my dad shouting.

"Great! Now you're destroying shit, that's fucking perfect!"

My whole body tenses, and my eyes burn. I duck my chin to my chest and breathe shallowly, listening to the fight escalate on the floor below us.

I can't help wonder what Jesse is thinking. I'm ashamed and embarrassed; he's heard me talk about their fights secondhand, but he's never been privy to what they actually sound like. I wonder if he thinks differently of me now that he has.

Behind me, I feel him prop himself up on an elbow and assume automatically that he's leaving. I brace myself for it, preparing to hear some bullshit excuse, but he doesn't stand up. All he does is reach over me to dig in his backpack, where he pulls out white earbuds attached to his phone.

I flinch against the sound of the loud voices downstairs, still going at full volume. I flinch again when Jesse puts something in my ear, until I realize it's just an earbud. He has the other one.

It takes a few seconds, but before long I hear the first notes of 'Gravel Road' in my ear, from the score of The Village, drowning any and everything out from downstairs. It's a song that I noticed while we watched the movie because it was so beautiful, so Jesse downloaded the whole score, joining the thousands of others he has on his phone.

I close my eyes and let myself get lost in the violin and the weight of his hand on my side. I haven't slept through the night in days, but tonight, I do.

…

We're listening to 'Stuff We Did' from the UP score when it happens.

I don't know why it does, and I don't think he knows either. We aren't talking, and we haven't talked in probably a good hour. We've just been lying here, facing each other, listening to film scores on shuffle. I'm tired, but in a good way. I can't hear my parents fighting downstairs, all I hear is his beautiful music.

Looking into his eyes, I feel a thousand crazy things. My heart starts pumping hard, my throat gets tight, and before I can stop myself, we're both leaning in towards each other.

And when we kiss, it seems like the most natural thing to do.

He's gentle, and I should've known he'd be. His lips move slowly against mine, taking precaution not to make any assumptions or move at a pace I'm uncomfortable with.

And I'm far from uncomfortable. I hadn't known it, but I'd been waiting for this. It feels right - it is right. He's my best friend, the person I love most - maybe the only one I love. And now, we're kissing. It's almost weird that we didn't take this step sooner.

I try and tell him how I feel through the movements of my body. I hear myself sigh into his mouth and make sounds I never thought I would; that, in any other situation, I'd be embarrassed to make. But because it's him, it's Jesse, I'm not. With him, I can be myself. I can do whatever, say whatever, feel however I want. No one else has ever allowed me to be this free.

His eyelashes graze my skin and his fingers weave through my hair, keeping me close with a hand on the back of my head. I rest mine on his chest, feeling his heart hammer wildly under my palm. I smile against his lips because of it, glad that he's feeling the same way I am.

When we pull apart, I'm panting but I feel calm. He tucks a piece of hair behind my ear and grins softly, then kisses me once more on the lips. Just quickly, a punctuation mark.

"Thank you," I whisper, stroking his chest over his shirt with my thumb.

He shakes his head. I know what he's thinking - I don't have to thank him. He's told me that a thousand times. But still, he asks, "For what?"

I move my hand to the side of his face and cradle his cheek, leaning in to give him another gentle kiss. With my forehead pressed against his, I say, "For being you."