No sooner is the bedroom door shut than I toss the phone onto my dresser like it’s burning my fingers to hold it. Way to go, self. Way to make things awkward. Chance latches onto me from behind. His icy arms come around my neck and he hangs there, burrowing his face against my back.

“Ohhh my God. It’s so cold outside. And you let me sit out there. What the hell is wrong with you?”

My skin prickles all over from the nearness of the human icicle that is Chance. I manage to twist around to face him while he hangs off me like an overgrown rag doll. Even after all this time, Chance’s tendency to be overly physical doesn’t faze me. If it were any other boy, it would be different, but this is Chance. There are no rules when it comes to him. “Let me get you something to change into. You’re not sleeping in my bed like that.”

This should be weird, letting some guy sleep in my bed. With me in it. We did it for years as kids because when you’re seven you aren’t thinking anything other than that it’s cool to have the comfort of a friend nearby.

Then you hit fourteen, fifteen, and you start to realize you’re watching that friend and marveling at how peaceful he is when he sleeps. You’re fascinated by the shape of his mouth and how soft his lips look. You’re wondering what it might be like to play with his hair, or how you could be so in love with the shadows of someone’s cheekbones.

Suddenly, it isn’t so cool anymore.

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