Marry my best friend

Since the beginning of our friendship, I’ve been in love with Natalie. Not some fleeting crush or quiet admiration—I mean the kind of love that settles deep into your bones. The kind that doesn’t fade with time, or distance, or her dating someone else who “gets” fashion and probably doesn’t have a history of eating boogers and farting during sleepovers. She’s perfect. Not in the polished, filtered, magazine-cover way. Natalie is real. Confident, kind, resilient. Sassy when it counts, loyal when it matters. A dream wrapped in one beautifully sculpted body and dressed like a Vogue spread every day of the week. I want her, have wanted her for years—but she doesn’t want me. Not like that. To her, I’m her best friend. The guy she grew up with. The one who once ate a dead beetle on a dare and couldn’t pronounce “balayage” if his life depended on it. Now I’m on a flight to London, pretending it’s for business. Technically, there is a conference. One I absolutely do not need to attend. B

Luciono’s POV Dinner was at a quiet bistro tucked into a narrow cobbled street—one of those places that smelled like melted butter and roasted garlic and looked like a secret. She picked it, of course. Natalie never liked crowds, not when it came to intimate things. The hostess seated us at a small table by the window. The city outside glowed amber and wet, the reflections of streetlamps shimmering in puddles. She looked across at me like she always had—like I was still the boy she knew. And that both thrilled and wrecked me. “You look tired,” she said softly, swirling the wine in her glass. “Jet lag,” I lied. She tilted her head. “And?” “And… I might have spent most of the flight over replaying every conversation we’ve ever had.” She blinked, surprised. “Why?” “I don’t know. Maybe I just missed my best friend.” Her eyes held mine for a beat longer than comfort allowed. Then she smiled. ⸻ Two Years Ago — Flashback It was 2:12 a.m. London time. I was back home

Natalie’s POVThe space smelled like old hardwood and possibility.Sunlight poured through the tall front windows, catching the dust dancing in the air like it had something to celebrate. Exposed brick lined the far wall. The ceilings stretched so high I could breathe again. And the back? A perfect blank slate for a design studio—half showroom, half sanctuary.It didn’t take long.Within minutes of stepping inside, I knew.This was it.Not just a storefront. A home.My heels clicked quietly across the floor as I walked the space alone, the realtor having given me a few minutes to “get a feel.” I trailed my fingers over the rough brick and imagined hanging my first designs. Showcasing pieces from collections that hadn’t even been born yet. Late nights, coffee cups, swatches and sketches and music playing loud while we sewed until sunrise.I could already hear the hum of creation. It vibrated in my bones.I reached the front window and glanced outside. People bustled along the sidewalk.

Luciono’s POV Natalie’s apartment looked exactly like her brain: chaotic, ambitious, halfway to genius. Boxes were stacked in uneven towers, half-labeled with Sharpie scribbles like “Kitchen? Maybe” and “DO NOT OPEN: Contains Stress.” A rack of designer coats leaned against a wall beside a yoga mat she hadn’t unrolled. The coffee table was buried under fabric swatches, takeout menus, and what I was fairly certain was a glue gun. “Your interior designer must be exhausted,” I said, stepping over a box labeled ‘God Knows.’ She glanced at me from the floor, where she was wrestling with an unopened drawer. “You’re looking at her. She’s also the moving crew, the marketing exec, and the head of logistics. And she’s doing her best.” “You’re also very bad at labeling.” “I prefer mystery.” We spent the next hour digging through the mess—me sorting, her directing like a frazzled general in a war against clutter. There was laughter, swearing, and several arguments over where “decora

Natalie’s POVJessica’s apartment was a Pinterest board come to life. Warm tones, fluffy throw blankets, string lights draped across the ceiling like stars trying too hard. She had music playing low—old R&B hits, the kind that made you want to drink wine and talk about your feelings even if you weren’t planning on it.I was curled up on her velvet couch in my favorite leggings, a glass of cabernet in one hand and a bowl of popcorn balanced on my thigh. She was cross-legged on the rug, going through a pile of dating app profiles like she was flipping through job applications.“Why are they all holding fish?” she muttered, disgusted. “What’s with the fish? Is it supposed to impress me?”“Maybe it’s a weird primal thing,” I offered. “Like, ‘I can provide. Here’s a trout.’”Jessica made a face. “I don’t want a trout. I want a man who uses punctuation and has a retirement plan.”“You’re asking for too much.”“I know.” She rolled her eyes, tossing her phone onto the coffee table. “Men suck.