Wait, I'm My Crush's Crush?

One quiet afternoon, I was sprawled on the couch, mindlessly channel surfing, when a ridiculously handsome face suddenly filled the screen.

The guy on TV had just won the national ice hockey championship. Under the spotlight, buried in flowers and applause, his smile was especially dazzling, like the warm sun in midsummer.

A reporter held a mic up to him and asked about the game. He smiled and said, "Winning this championship was completely within my expectations. I believe in my talent and my strength, and I hope I can achieve even better results on the ice in the future."

The camera panned over the stands. A sea of fangirls held banners and signs showing support, screaming at the top of their lungs. A few crazed fans even shouted that they wanted to marry him.

Sitting in front of the TV, I let out a cold snort and shifted my gaze to the balcony. My childhood friend, Flynn Carter, was doing laundry shirtless, his muscles sharply defined.

No one could've imagined that the aloof, unattainable prince in everyone else's eyes was, at that very moment, acting like my personal housekeeper, helping me wash my clothes.

Sweat streamed down his broad chest, tracing a line along the ridges of his eight-pack abs. My eyes followed the trail of glistening sweat all the way down until they landed on his shorts.

I didn't know if Flynn sensed my stare, but he deliberately straightened up and looked right at me.

The instant our eyes met, I felt like I'd been shocked. I jerked my gaze away in a panic.

Even when he knew I was home, Flynn never bothered to cover up. He would just wander around the apartment in nothing but a pair of shorts. Because we had grown up together and were way too used to each other, he treated me with an overfamiliar intimacy that had absolutely no boundaries.

We could share the same hoodie and drink from the same cup of bubble tea. He finished my leftovers, too. He would even help me wash my underwear.

These were things only couples in a serious relationship would normally do, but I knew he only saw me as his female best friend.

It wasn't that he was incapable in that department, or that he swung the other way. It was just that, when he was little, he'd caught his mother in bed with another man. The trauma had carved a deep, permanent scar in him, so he despised any woman who wanted to fall into bed with him.

Whenever any woman confessed to Flynn, his face would contort with pure disgust.

"Those women who confess to me are all the same. All they want is my body and to sleep with me. I'm not going to have anything to do with women like that."

Hearing how resolute he sounded, I unconsciously hid the love letter I'd spent all night writing behind my back.

Yes, I liked Flynn. I'd liked him for a long time.

But I knew he regarded me only as a good friend. The second I tried to take things further, he would realize I was no different from all those women who wanted him.

I couldn't bear the thought of him looking at me with that same disgust and then cutting me out of his life. So, I forced my feelings down and stayed by his side as his good friend, like always.

The problem was that Flynn was flirty without even realizing it. Every day, he strolled around half-naked right in front of me, like a lamb that had already been seasoned and plated. He was something I could only look at but never take a bite of. It was pure torture.

Thinking about that, I started regretting the day I'd agreed to move in and share an apartment with him.

"Hey, what are you thinking about?"

The snapping of fingers derailed my train of thought. When I came back to my senses, a massive chest filled my field of vision. Flynn had one hand braced on the back of the couch, leaning over me, looking down from above.

I tilted my head up. That annoyingly handsome face was inches from mine, sweat beading densely on his forehead and dripping from the tips of his hair.

I instinctively swallowed hard. Honestly, who wouldn't be tempted by a body like that? But I still managed to hold it together.

I raised my hand and pushed him aside, putting on a solemn expression as I asked, "Can you at least put a shirt on when you're at home?"

He glanced down at his chest, looking confused. "Why? Am I not ripped enough?"

Was that the point here?

"Don't you think this is inappropriate?"

"How is it inappropriate? If I don't walk around half-naked at home, am I supposed to do it out on the street?"

For a moment, I didn't know what to say. Annoyingly, I had to admit he kind of had a point.

"Besides, we grew up together. We're thick as thieves. There's nothing about me you haven't already seen," he went on, sounding completely justified.