*this is a long one
The sun rose, casting a warm golden light through the sheer curtains of the apartment Y/N shared with Dylan. Their morning routine was a comforting rhythm: Y/N would wake up to the smell of freshly brewed coffee and the sound of eggs sizzling on the stove. She'd emerge from her room to find Dylan, already up, preparing breakfast. Today was no different—until it was.
As Y/N padded into the kitchen, still groggy and rubbing sleep from her eyes, she stopped short. Dylan stood at the stove, flipping pancakes, but today he was shirtless, dressed only in a pair of grey sweatpants that hung low on his hips. His hair was tousled, and the early morning light highlighted the definition of his muscles and the soft curve of his smile.
"Good morning," Dylan said, glancing over his shoulder and flashing her a grin. His voice was husky with sleep, and Y/N felt a flutter in her chest she couldn't quite ignore.
"Morning," she replied, her voice a little higher than usual as she quickly averted her gaze. She tried to shake off the sudden awareness of him, focusing instead on the table where he'd already set out a mug of coffee for her, just the way she liked it.
They'd been friends for years, their lives intertwined through countless shared moments. They had fallen into an easy routine: Dylan handled breakfast, Y/N took care of dinner. They knew each other's quirks, habits, and secrets, a comfortable familiarity that had always felt like home. But today, something shifted.
Y/N watched Dylan from the corner of her eye as he moved around the kitchen, effortlessly multitasking between the pancakes and the bacon frying on the side. Her gaze traced the line of his back, the way his muscles moved under his skin, and the casual ease with which he moved. A warm blush crept up her neck, and she quickly busied herself with her coffee, trying to suppress the sudden rush of emotions.
"What's on the menu today?" she asked, her voice steadier now as she took a sip from her mug.
"Your favorite—blueberry pancakes," Dylan replied, turning to face her fully. There was a softness in his eyes as he looked at her, and for a brief moment, Y/N wondered if he felt it too—the unspoken connection that seemed to hum between them.
Y/N managed a smile, hoping it didn't betray the confusion and longing swirling inside her. She had never thought of Dylan that way, or at least she had convinced herself she hadn't. He was her best friend, her confidant, the person who knew her better than anyone else. But now, as she watched him pour syrup over a stack of pancakes, she couldn't deny the growing warmth in her chest.
"Here you go," Dylan said, placing a plate in front of her and sitting down across the table. "So, what's the plan for today?"
Y/N looked at him, her heart racing as she forced herself to focus on their conversation. They talked about their plans, the mundane details of their lives, but beneath the surface, Y/N's thoughts kept drifting back to the way Dylan's fingers had brushed against hers when he handed her the plate, the way his eyes lingered on her just a fraction longer than usual.
That night, as usual, Y/N cooked dinner. She tried to act normal, to push down the confusing emotions that had surfaced that morning. She made Dylan's favorite—spaghetti carbonara—and they ate together, laughing and talking as they always did. But there was a new awareness between them, a tension that neither acknowledged but both felt keenly.
As the weeks passed, the routine continued. Every morning, Y/N would wake up to coffee and breakfast, and every night, she'd cook dinner for Dylan. They didn't talk about that morning, didn't mention the subtle shift in their dynamic. Y/N tried to bury her feelings, to pretend everything was the same. But every time she saw Dylan, shirtless and carefree in the early morning light, or caught his gaze lingering on her a moment too long, she couldn't ignore the truth.
