MerkurMika
Joelin doesn't know why he notices the small things about Sammy-the way he wraps his hands around his vanilla latte, the way he hums when he's focused, the way his laugh gets louder when he forgets to be self-conscious. They've been friends for two years. Movie nights, takeout containers, falling asleep on the couch. Nothing more. So why does Joelin's chest feel different every time Sammy walks through the door?
Sammy, meanwhile, just thinks Joelin has been acting strange lately. Quieter. More intense. The way he looks at him sometimes-like he's trying to memorize something. Sammy tells himself he's imagining things. It's just breakfast. It's just Joelin. But the looks don't stop. And neither does the warmth in his own chest that he can't quite explain.
A quiet, slow-burn story about two friends standing in the space between-not yet lovers, no longer just friends. About the things we notice without meaning to. The habits we memorize without asking. And the trouble that feels, against all logic, like the good kind.